DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 


ARPER 


UC-NRLF 


DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 


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DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 


BY 


GEORGE  McLEAN  HARPER 

FBOFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  PRINCETON  UNIVIRSITY 

AUTHOR  OF  "JOHN  MORIiET  AND  OTHER  B8aA.T8," 

AND  "WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  HIS  LIFE, 

WORKS,  AND  INFLUENCE" 


PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

PRINCETON 

LONDON :  HUMPHREY  MILFOBD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1922 


Copyright  1922 
Princeton  University  Press 


Published  1922 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


This  volume  of  adventures 

grave  and  gay 

I  dedicate  to  my  daughter  Isabel 

in  memory  of  our  wanderings 

in  her  blithe  childhood. 


503443 


Heart  of  Ayrshire  and  New  Wine  in  an  Old 
Bottle  are  reprinted  from  Scribner's  Magazine, 
and  With  Eomeo  and  Little  Nannie  from  the 
Nassau  Literary  Magazine. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Heart  of  Ayrshire  1 

New  Wine  in  an  Old  Bottle 27 

Hardart  Mort   49 

With  Romeo  and  Little  Nannie 67 

Lost  Vineta   94 

Hawkshead  and  Dove  Cottage 115 

Siena :  A  Summer  in  the  Middle  Ages 145 


vu 


DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE 

I  remember,  when  I  was  a  child,  snatching  a 
fearful  joy  from  surreptitious  glimpses  of  a 
wicked  picture  in  a  copy  of  Burns  belonging  to 
my  grandfather,  who  was  a  minister.  I  would 
loiter  in  his  library  after  reciting  my  Latin  to 
this  grave  and  venerable  man,  and  affect  an  in- 
terest in  other  books,  Rutherford's  ^* Letters,'* 
perhaps,  or  Turrettini's  **Body  of  Divinity,*' 
till  I  thought  I  might  venture  a  glance  into  the 
big  *  *  Burns. ' '  The  print,  to  which  I  then  greed- 
ily turned,  raised  in  my  breast  certain  delicious 
points  of  casuistry.  For  it  illustrated,  with  no 
sparing  of  details  as  to  horns  and  cloven  hoofs 
or  any  other  requisite,  the  breathless  jig  which 
Burns  composed  extempore  at  a  meeting  of 
gangers,  *  *  The  Deil  's  awa  wi '  the  Exciseman '  * — 
an  improper  picture  for  me  to  look  at,  I  well 
knew,  and  how  much  worse,  then,  for  a  minister 
to  possess !  And,  moreover,  a  Scotch  minister, 
Scotchmen  being  regarded  in  our  village  as 
more  pious  than  other  people.  On  the  other 
hand,  being  a  Scotchman,  was  it  not  fitting  that 
he  should  honour  the  great  poet?  And  was  it  not 
well,  indeed,  that  a  minister  should  have  a  hu- 

1 


¥  '"''  '^'^  'DlifilAlVtS  AND  MEMOEIES 

man  side  and  take  his  Burns  straight,  swallow- 
ing the  muckle  devil  and  **The  Cotter's  Satur- 
day Night'*  boldly  together?  My  opinion  of 
the  gentle  old  man  was  rather  elevated  than  de- 
pressed by  mature  consideration  of  this  subject 
and  its  outlying  branches.  The  good  things  of 
life,  I  instinctively  felt,  went  along  with  the  real 
things.  The  grin  and  fling  of  animal  spirits,  the 
mysterious  movings  of  Nature,  the  earthly 
mould,  the  fleshly  habitation,  had  claims  upon 
us,  and  it  was  to  his  credit  that  my  grandfather, 
though  a  minister,  and  Scotch,  was  man  enough 
to  face  facts. 

There  is  a  twinkle  of  humour,  as  I  have  since 
learned,  in  the  eye  of  every  Scot,  which  pro- 
claims him  capable  of  seeing  subjects  in  more 
than  one  light.  The  Scotch  feel  the  sting  of  the 
senses,  I  am  convinced,  as  keenly  as  men  of  any 
other  race,  and  are  as  soon  set  a-quiver  with  the 
caresses  of  the  Earth-Spirit.  If  they  have  got 
a  reputation  for  self-mastery  they  have  fairly 
earned  it.  Contrary  to  what  is  perhaps  the  pre- 
valent opinion,  I  have  found  them  vivacious, 
gay,  and  wildly  disposed,  as  quick-witted  and 
mobile  as  the  French,  and  almost  as  sentimental 
as  the  Germans.  Their  ancestors  played 
strange  tricks  upon  themselves  at  the  Reforma- 
tion, and  the  game  was  kept  up  with  a  grim  face 
during  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centu- 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  3 

ries,  until,  by  the  time  Burns  appeared,  Scot- 
land, and  almost  every  Scottish  heart,  were 
curiously  divided  into  two  imperfectly  related 
societies.  On  the  one  hand  was  an  ascetic  dis- 
dain of  luxury,  pomp,  art,  and  even  the  com- 
forts and  amenities  of  existence;  on  the  other 
hand  an  eager  joy  in  life.  There  were  not  a 
few  generous  and  ample  souls  in  whom  a  love 
of  spiritual  perfection  mingled  harmoniously 
with  a  more  instinctive  acceptance  of  things 
as  they  are;  but  the  tendency  was  to  go  to  ex- 
tremes. Many  of  the  strongest  natures  in  Scot- 
tish history  were  either  fanatics  or  sensualists, 
either  austerely  self -repressed  or  fiercely  self- 
willed. 

The  Renaissance  in  Scotland  was  rather  the 
liberation  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes  from 
the  oppression  of  monks  and  lords  than  the 
birth  of  humanism.  It  brought  about  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  popular  religion  and  a  popular 
system  of  education,  and  made  Scotland  one  of 
the  most  democratic  countries  in  the  world,  but 
did  little  at  first  to  advance  the  arts  or  refine 
the  manners  of  the  nation.  The  Palace  of 
James  V  in  Stirling  Castle  is  as  good  an  illus- 
tration of  this  failure  as  one  need  look  for. 
Its  decorations  are  grotesque  and  barbarous,  a 
travesty  of  art,  and  an  index  to  the  levity,  the 
grossness,  of  the  Scottish  court.    Among  the 


4  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

people,  however,  in  course  of  time,  the  parish 
schools  and  the  universities  fostered  a  regard 
for  learning  and  provided  an  outlook  over  the 
world  of  history,  philosophy,  and  literature.  By 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century,  a  large 
part  of  the  Lowland  population,  even  to  the 
class  of  small  tenant  farmers  and  village  arti- 
sans, were  free  and  enlightened,  and  were  find- 
ing scope,  in  the  national  poetry,  history,  and 
theology,  for  the  exercise  of  their  native  love  of 
romance  and  their  skill  in  logical  discussion. 
This  emancipation  is  justly  accredited  to  the 
Reformation,  and  particularly  to  John  Knox. 

No  more  than  anjrwhere  else,  however,  has 
the  town  workingman  been  puritanized  or 
spiritualized  in  Scotland.  To  all  appearances, 
the  man  with  a  greasy  neck-cloth  wound  about 
his  throat,  the  man  with  a  red  nose  generally, 
whom  one  sees  at  dock  or  factory  work  or  dis- 
mally looking  for  diversion  in  Scotch  cities,  is 
alien  to  the  kirk.  The  ideal  world,  whether  of 
the  present  or  of  the  future,  the  world  of  ro- 
mance and  excitement,  adventure,  gayety,  and 
colour,  for  which  he  has  a  natural  and  lively  de- 
sire, he  beholds  chiefly  through  the  bottom  of  a 
whiskey  glass,  and  from  Monday  to  Saturday 
his  soul  abhors  the  deception,  and  he  is  sombre 
and  looks  unhappy.  I  am  referring,  with  that 
small  degree  of  right  which  casual  observation 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  5 

gives  a  traveller,  to  the  foul  dregs  of  the  large 
towns,  obviously  the  victims  of  drink  and  ennui, 
and  apparently  more  sodden  and  more  numer- 
ous proportionally  than  the  corresponding  class 
in  Continental,  English,  and  American  cities.  It 
would  seem  that  a  Puritan  civilization  affords 
too  little  harmless  dissipation  and  sets  its  more 
spiritual  benefits  beyond  the  reach  of  these 
poor  people. 

There  is  one  small  district  in  Ayrshire  where 
the  brave  but  narrow  religious  life  of  Puritan 
Scotland,  the  belated  humanism  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  and  the  comment  of  genius  upon 
them  both  are  brought  to  mind  in  a  half -day's 
walk.  In  so  short  a  time  did  I  behold  the  grave 
of  the  Prophet  Peden,  the  ancestral  home  of 
James  Boswell,  and  the  fields  where  Robert 
Burns  strove  to  accommodate  in  his  spacious 
sympathy  the  bitter  and  the  sweet  of  Scottish 
life. 

I  was  told  by  the  keeper  of  the  Burns  monu- 
ment at  the  Brig  o'  Doon  that  more  than  ten 
thousand  pilgrims  had  visited  that  shrine,  and 
doubtless  also  the  birthplace  hard  by,  in  one 
week  last  summer.  At  that  rate  a  large  part 
of  the  world  needs  no  description  of  the  cottage 
where  the  poet  was  born.  Neither  the  Shake- 
speare house  at  Stratford,  nor  the  Goethe  house 
at  Frankfort,  plays  so  affectingly  upon  one's 


6  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

emotions.  This  is  a  far  humbler  birthplace — a 
closet  in  a  kitchen — and  the  great  son  of  that 
little  house  died  a  cottager  as  he  began.  There 
was  no  New  Place  and  no  Weimar  mansion  in 
store  for  him.  The  sympathetic  tear  springs  as 
naturally  there,  I  think,  as  in  any  other  of 
earth's  memorable  spots,  and  it  swells  on  a 
jflood  of  pride — pride  that  a  man,  and  a  very 
poor  man,  could  be  so  great.  I  thought  scorn 
of  the  ostentatiously  rich  family  whom  I  met 
descending  from  a  motor-car  at  the  door.  Very 
likely  they  shed  tears  in  the  cottage  themselves, 
and  felt  scorn  for  nobody.  Burns  is  the  poor 
man's  poet,  and  the  best  beloved  by  humble  and 
unlettered  people.  His  fame  is,  in  so  far,  more 
general  than  Shakespeare 's.    It  goes  deeper. 

It  is  true  that  the  poet  was  born  near  Ayr, 
and  travellers  who  have  seen  the  Cottage,  and 
the  Twa  Brigs,  and  AUoway  Kirk,  and  the  Brig 
o '  Doon  have  been  vividly  reminded  of  his  hum- 
ble origin  and  of  several  of  his  best  poems.  A 
group  of  villages  further  inland  was,  however, 
the  scene  of  his  fullest  activity,  his  loves  and 
friendships,  his  early  efforts  to  be  a  good 
farmer,  and  the  experiences  and  observations 
from  which  most  of  his  satires  and  epistles 
and  first  songs  came.  We  had  seen  Ayr  and  its 
surroundings,  and  were  glad  to  accept  the  offer 
of  a  gentleman  whose  grandfather  Burns  knew 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  7 

and  loved,  to  go  with  us  to  these  places  in  the 
heart  of  Ayrshire.  **We  will  catch  Hendry's 
waggonette  and  go  first  to  Old  Cumnock  and  see 
the  grave  of  the  Prophet  Peden,  and  then  come 
back  to  Ochiltree  for  a  quiet  Sunday,  and  after 
that  see  Auchinleck  and  Catrine  and  Mauchline 
and  Mossgiel  and  Tarbolton.'' 

So  on  a  bright  Saturday  morning  in  July  we 
set  forth  from  Ayr,  the  American  professor,* 
our  genial  Ayrshire  friend,  and  I,  and  in  less 
than  an  hour  had  been  left  at  a  small  station 
and  were  walking  over  the  bold  rolling  country 
towards  a  cross-roads  where  Mr.  Hendry's  con- 
veyance was  to  pass  at  a  certain  hour.  One 
peculiarity  of  Ayrshire  scenery  is  that  a  good 
deal  of  it  is  visible  from  any  point  of  consider- 
able elevation,  and  this  too  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  the  country  is  well  wooded.  Hedges  and 
walls  are  low,  and  the  face  of  the  country  is 
openly  displayed. 

**  Yonder  flows  the  Lugar,"  said  Mr.  Ten- 
nant,  with  a  wave  of  his  arm,  **and  yon  are  the 
banks  of  *  winding  Ayr,'  where  Burns  took  leave 
of  Highland  Mary — 


*  Norman  Kemp  Smith,  now,  to  the  regret  of  his 
American  friends,  reclaimed  by  Scotland  and  filling  the 
historic  chair  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh. 


8  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

*  Still  o  'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ; 

Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear.' 

And  through  that  wood  we  shall  come  to  the 
braes  of  Ballochmyle.  The  family  at  Balloch- 
myle  House  were  ill  pleased  to  have  a  plough- 
man sing  of  their  young  lady ;  but  'tis  now  their 
boast. 

*But  here  at  last  for  me  nae  mair 

Shall  birdie  charm  or  floweret  smile ; 

Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr! 

Fareweel,  fareweel,  sweet  Ballochmyle.'  " 

**I  doubt  you've  never  heard  in  America  of 
the  University  of  Ochiltree;  yet  if  you  look 
you'll  see  it  there,  at  the  head  of  the  brae,  in 
Ochiltree  village.  Just  a  plain  parish  school, 
such  as  John  Knox  set  up  in  every  town  in 
Scotland;  but  we  had  an  excellent  teacher,  a 
college  graduate,  who  took  us  through  six  books 
of  Homer  and  a  good  deal  of  Virgil,  Ovid,  and 
Livy.  You'll  be  having  much  better  schools  in 
America,  of  course,  scattered  over  the  coun- 
try?" 

As  Mr.  Tennant  is  not  naturally  a  cruel  man, 
he  relieved  us  from  the  necessity  of  replying  by 
calling  attention  to  the  carrier 's  waggonette, 
which  was  approaching.  The  grand  big  horse, 
Mr.  Hendry  himself,  a  small,  white-haired,  ap- 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  9 

pie-cheeked  man,  with  a  keen  twinkling  light  in 
his  blue  eyes,  and  the  load  of  women,  babies,  and 
boys  which  filled  every  part  of  the  vehicle,  made 
a  picture  of  rustic  locomotion ;  and  there  was  a 
fine  display  of  courtesy  when  the  boys  jumped 
out  to  walk,  the  mothers  crowded  close  to- 
gether, and  the  babies  were  allowed  to  sit  on 
our  knees.  English  country  boys,  though  I  like 
them  well  enough,  do  not  particularly  remind 
me  of  American  boys,  but  Scotch  boys,  especial- 
ly the  barefoot  village  boys  of  Ayrshire,  re- 
minded me  individually  of  this,  that,  and  the 
other  companion  of  my  youth.  The  eye  which 
never  loses  sight  of  yours,  the  bare,  free  brow, 
the  freckles,  the  plucky  mouth,  the  engaging  air 
of  freedom  and  enterprise  and  humour,  in  more 
than  one  Ayrshire  face,  brought  up  the  image 
of  a  little  group  of  schoolmates,  now  scattered 
from  Pennsylvania  to  New  Mexico.  The  Scotch 
boys  whom  I've  met  on  roads  and  hillsides 
have  always  been  about  some  business  of  their 
own,  and  very  much  interested  in  its  outcome — 
evidently  had  something  on  their  minds,  some 
adventure  in  hand.  They  were  hurrying  to 
some  rendezvous  or  wearily  returning  with  jars 
and  cans  full  of  tadpoles,  or  with  strings  of  fish 
or  combs  of  wild  honey.  I  remember  a  silent, 
stoical  file  of  little  fellows  who  passed  me  once 
on  Arthur's  Seat,  returning  from  Duddingston 


10  DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

or  Craigmillar  or  the  distant  seashore,  the  fore- 
most picking  the  easiest  way  with  bleeding  feet, 
the  two  smallest  lagging  behind,  their  set  faces 
convulsed  by  sobs.  It  was  all  so  natural,  and 
took  me  back  to  the  afternoon  when  six  of  us 
shut  ourselves  up  in  our  barn  at  home  and  beat 
one  another's  legs  amicably  with  cornstalks  till 
the  blood  flowed. 

Mr.  Tennant  is  a  specialist  on  churchyards, 
as  well  as  a  repository  of  Covenanter  tradi- 
tions, and  the  most  delightful  lover  of  Burns  I 
have  ever  met.  When,  therefore,  we  had  driven 
up  the  long  street  of  Old  Cumnock,  where  mod- 
ern two-story  houses  have  only  half  supplanted 
the  old  whitewashed,  thatched,  one-story  cot- 
tages, and  had  disentangled  our  cramped  legs 
and  descended  beside  the  parish  cross,  we  found 
ourselves  presently  at  the  grave  of  the  Prophet 
Peden,  reading  one  of  those  vindictive  epitaphs 
by  which  the  Covenanters  and  their  children 
unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation  sought  to 
keep  alive  the  memory  of  the  persecuting  time. 
This  spot  was  once  a  place  of  execution,  the 
Gallows  Hill.  A  passion  of  love  and  pride  con- 
secrated it  to  another  use  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  ago.  The  story  is  not  without  a 
touch  of  weirdness.  Few  incidents  better  illus- 
trate the  national  character  and  the  strange 
vicissitudes    of    Scottish   history.     Alexander 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  11 

Peden  was  one  of  the  ministers  who  refused  to 
submit  to  Episcopal  ** collation"  when  the  re- 
stored Stuart  kings  were  trying  to  abash  free 
Presbyterianism.  It  was  death  to  lodge  or  feed 
him  or  to  follow  him  to  the  hills  and  listen  to 
his  words.  He  hid  in  caves  along  the  Lugar 
and  the  Ayr,  baptizing  children,  performing 
marriages,  burying  the  dead,  preaching  on  the 
lonely  moors,  where  the  white  fog  fell  in  an- 
swer to  his  prayer  **Cast  the  lap  of  thy  cloak 
over  auld  Sandy  and  thir  puir  things,  and  save 
us  this  ane  time,"  heartening  faint  outcasts 
with  his  humour,  his  anecdotes,  his  confident 
predictions,  aflame  always  with  patriotic  zeal, 
crying  **He  is  not  worth  his  room  in  Scotland 
the  day,  that  prayeth  not  the  half  of  his  time,  to 
see  if  he  can  prevent  the  dreadful  wrath  that  is 
at  your  door,  coming  on  your  poor  mother- 
land." With  sadness  he  foretold  the  capture  of 
this  man,  the  treachery  of  that,  the  slaughter  of 
a  bridegroom  he  was  marrying,  the  rout  in  the 
Pentlands  and  at  Bothwell  Brig;  and  these 
things  came  to  pass.  He  had  but  to  point  a 
finger  at  the  scoffing  maid-servant  on  the  Bass 
Rock,  and  she  flung  herself  into  the  sea ;  at  the 
soldier  who  was  guarding  him,  and  he  refused 
to  serve  any  more  against  the  King  of  kings. 
On  the  misty  moorland  simple  men  caught  sight 
of  this  portentous  figure,  ''in  grey  clothes," 


12  DREAMS  AND  MEMOEIES 

wearing  **a  f ause-f ace, "  his  sword,  an  Andrea 
Ferrara,  clanking  as  he  stalked  away ;  and  they 
readily  believed  him  inspired.  Of  the  faithful 
Covenanter  preachers  in  the  West,  Peden  was 
about  the  only  one  who  escaped  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  prelatists.  But  they  harried  him 
to  his  life's  end  in  1686.  The  laird  of  Auchin- 
leck  offered  the  Boswell  family  tomb  for  the 
repose  of  his  body.  After  six  weeks  it  was  dug 
up  by  spiteful  adversaries,  '*out  of  contempt,'' 
as  his  old  gravestone  records.  The  winding- 
sheet  flew  from  their  grasp  and  settled  on  an 
oak  tree,  which  thenceforth  ceased  to  grow  up- 
wards, spreading  out  horizontally,  as  if  in  awe. 
The  body  was  dragged  to  the  gallows  foot  in 
Old  Cumnock,  two  miles  away.  Thereupon  the 
people  of  that  parish  placed  their  own  dead 
near  it.  Peden 's  dust  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
rest  in  peace  even  now,  for  the  vengeful  inscrip- 
tions above  it  and  on  the  gravestones  of  three 
other  martyrs  of  the  killing  time  taint  the  air. 
I  saw  the  oak  tree  bowing  still  its  awe-struck 
head. 

One  might,  at  first  thought,  wish  that  the 
numerous  martyrs'  monuments  throughout 
Scotland  might  be  removed — even  the  bitter 
record  in  Greyfriars  Churchyard,  Edinburgh, 
and  even  the  stone  among  the  Pentlands  which 
commemorates  the  charitable  deed  of  a  brave 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  13 

farmer  to  an  Unknown  Covenanter  after  the 
slaughter  on  RuUion  Green.  Who,  we  ask, 
would  lay  down  his  life  now  for  a  matter  of 
church  government?  What  but  unchristian 
feelings  can  be  inculcated  at  these  places  of 
bloody  execution,  where  one  reads 

**This  stone  shall  witness  be 
'Twixt  Presbyterie  and  Prelacie.'* 

But  on  reflection  I  think  we  cannot  spare  any 
of  these  truth-telling  stones.  Their  language 
does  not  exaggerate.  We  have  it  in  our  power 
to  fix  our  attention  upon  the  courage  and  con- 
stancy of  the  **  elect, '^  who  were  driven  by  un- 
comprehending tyranny  from  their  bare  farms 
to  the  barer  moors,  and  overlook  the  lesson  of 
hatred  which  their  followers  sought  to  teach  in 
carven  monuments.  The  blue  banner  of  the 
Covenant  was  borne,  through  apparent  defeat, 
to  an  ideal  victory;  and,  to  say  the  least,  a 
sombre  gleam  of  romance  rests  upon  these  scat- 
tered graves  and  lonely  scenes  of  blood. 

My  desire  to  buy  some  kippered  herring  in 
Old  Cumnock  occasioned  a  pretty  exhibition  of 
Scotch  thoughtfulness.  **  Could  we  ask  Mrs. 
Probert,  of  the  Head  Inn  at  Ochiltree,  to  have 
them  cooked  for  us  I  Would  it  not  offend  her  to 
have  her  own  larder  slighted  T'  Thus  the 
American  professor,  who  was  born  and  bred  in 


14  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Scotland.  Mr.  Tennant,  as  a  son  of  Ochiltree, 
thought  we  might  put  it  to  Mrs.  Probert  in  such 
a  way  as  to  avoid  offence,  and  so  the  odorous 
parcel  was  pocketed.  Again  the  carrier's 
waggon  was  overcrowded,  worse  than  before, 
and  with  an  equally  good-natured  company,  en- 
couraged by  proximity  to  lively  conversation  in 
very  broad  Scotch.  The  professor  and  I,  and  a 
young  man  of  the  country  squeezed  into  the 
front  seat  beside  Mr.  Hendry.  He  beguiled  the 
way  by  questioning  the  professor  about  Amer- 
ica. **  There  will  be  no  enclosures  in  America 
like  these,''  pointing  to  the  hedges;  *4t  will  all 
be  open,  no  doubt,  and  as  soon  as  a  man  drives 
out  of  one  of  your  big  cities  he  goes  over  hill 
and  vale  straight  before  him,  without  a  road, 
till  he  comes  to  the  place  he  would  be  at.  You 
will  observe,"  he  remarked,  **that  a  Scotchman 
thinks.  He  may  be  quiet,  but  he  is  aye  think- 
ing. ' '  I  nudged  my  friend,  the  supposed  Ameri- 
can, and  the  phrase  has  become  a  by-word  with 
us.  There  was  a  fine  play  of  shadows  and  wan- 
dering lights  over  the  dark  green  rolling  coun- 
try. The  farmlands  lay  high ;  the  water-courses 
were  deep  and  richly  wooded.  The  prospects 
were  singularly  wide.  The  holdings  appeared 
to  be  of  good  size,  averaging  perhaps  a  hundred 
and  fifty  acres,  and  the  buildings  were  capacious 
and  clean,  all  of  stone,  and  generally  white- 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  15 

washed.  Here  and  there  the  upper  works  of  a 
coal-mine  led  to  an  expectation  of  ugliness  and 
squalor,  but  coming  close  we  found  the  fair  face 
of  Nature  very  little  disfigured,  and  among  the 
most  tasteful  houses  were  the  homes  of  miners, 
handsome  sandstone  buildings  with  neat  grass- 
plots  in  front  and  a  glory  of  climbing  roses.  It 
was  a  surprise  to  see  the  grimy  faces  of  coal- 
miners  at  the  windows  of  such  houses,  and  I 
thought  with  discomfort  of  the  ugly  unpainted 
wooden  shanties  around  some  of  the  pit  mouths 
near  Scranton  and  Wilkes-Barre,  unattractive 
abodes  of  men  who,  as  a  class,  deserve  well  of 
the  world,  like  sailors,  trainmen,  and  physi- 
cians, for  the  dangerous  and  necessary  work 
they  perform.  I  do  not  believe  anything  in 
Scotland  has  given  me  much  greater  pleasure 
than  the  sight  of  those  black  miners  looking  out 
between  lace  curtains. 

At  last,  from  Mr.  Tennant's  rising  excite- 
ment, it  was  plain  that  we  were  approaching 
Ochiltree,  where  he  was  born,  and  where  he  and 
his  sister  still  own  and  sometimes  inhabit  the 
ancestral  **but  and  ben.''  Their  grandfather 
and  great-grandfather  lived  on  Glenconner 
farm,  visible  from  the  village,  and  there  Burns 
often  visited  his  friend  James  Tennant,  his 

**Auld  comrade  dear,  and  brither  sinner,'* 


16  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

to  whose  father,  bearing  after  Scottish  fashion 
the  place-name  Glenconner,  he  referred  in  the 
famous  lines, 

**My  heart-warm  love  to  guid  auld  Glen, 
The  ace  an'  wale  of  honest  men.'* 

Where  else  in  the  world  do  farmers  lend  one 
another  volumes  of  philosophy  or  peruse  **Bun- 
yan.  Brown,  an'  Boston''? 

**I've  sent  you  here,  by  Johnnie  Simson, 
Twa  sage  philosophers  to  glimpse  on! 
Smith,  wi'  his  sympathetic  feeling, 
An'  Reid,  to  common  sense  appealing." 

Burns  expected  his  neighbour  to  read  the  books, 
and  was  in  a  hurry  to  have  them  back : 

**But  hark  ye,  frien'!  I  charge  you  strictly, 
Peruse  them,  an'  return  them  quickly." 

I  have  seen  a  fair  number  of  Scotch  villages, 
and  Ochiltree  is  the  most  Scotch.  One  long 
street,  in  three  reaches,  flows  down  the  hill-side. 
From  the  head  of  the  brae  you  see  about  one- 
third  of  its  length,  to  the  kirk;  here  it  bends, 
and  you  may  go  a  step  further  and  see  the  vil- 
lage cross,  at  the  end  of  another  third;  and  at 
the  cross  you  begin  the  last  stretch.  This  wind- 
ing and  sloping  street  is  lined  for  the  most  part 
with  one-story  houses,  each  offering  a  door 
flanked  by  two  small  windows.  Thatch  makes 
them  look  old  and  whitewash  fresh.    They  stand 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  17 

shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  few  have  front  yards. 
To  an  extent  unusual  in  countries  north  of  Italy, 
the  scenes  of  village  life  are  enacted  in  the  pub- 
lic view,  on  the  street,  and  about  open  doors. 
From  what  I  saw  of  the  play,  it  is  no  such  tragic 
stuff  as  an  Ochiltree  boy,  George  Douglas 
Brown,  put  into  his  **  House  with  the  Green 
Shutters, ' '  one  of  the  most  vital  works  of  fiction 
in  our  time.  Since  Ochiltree  has  begun  to  real- 
ize that  a  substantial  and  lasting  fame  was 
achieved  through  that  terrible  novel,  the  house, 
near  the  head  of  the  brae,  where  Brown  was 
born,  has  been  distinguished  with  green  shut- 
ters, almost  the  only  shutters  in  the  place,  and 
quite  incongruous.  The  corner-stone  of  the 
parish  church  was  laid  by  James  Boswell.  In 
spite  of  this  recommendation,  which  I  daresay 
found  no  favour  in  their  eyes,  Boswell 's  philos- 
ophy of  religion  being  considered,  the  disrup- 
tionists  erected  a  Free  kirk  around  the  corner, 
in  a  cross  street.  It  is  common  to  deplore  the 
expense  of  this  doubling  of  church  buildings 
and  ministers  and  the  halving  of  congregations, 
which  have  taken  place  in  so  many  Scottish  par- 
ishes, but  I  could  never  discover  that  anything 
worse  than  pecuniary  loss  had  resulted.  I  have 
observed  no  bitterness  between  the  two  bodies. 
Their  slight  differences  afford  persons  who  are 
very  particular  an  opportunity  to  gratify  their 


18  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

tastes  with  some  degree  of  nicety.  One  church 
is  said  to  be  more  liberal  than  the  other  in  mat- 
ters of  theology.  Perhaps  it  may  go  further  in 
that  direction  and  become  the  home  of  the  many 
who  will  be  ill  at  ease  in  orthodox  societies 
when  the  people  follow  the  younger  generation 
of  ministers  in  their  changed  views  of  the  Bible. 
In  a  dark  grove,  just  beyond  the  lower  end  of 
the  village,  rise  the  high,  crow-stepped  gables 
of  an  ancient  mansion  that  has  given  shelter  to 
two  famous  men  upon  an  interesting  occasion 
in  the  life  of  each.  For  in  Ochiltree  House 
John  Knox  was  married,  and  who  else  but  Clav- 
erhouse!  Leaning  for  shelter  against  the  high 
wall  that  surrounds  Ochiltree  House  are  some 
old  tombstones  in  a  half-forgotten  graveyard. 
The  gate  was  locked,  but  imitating  a  small  boy 
in  an  Eton  jacket  who  climbed  into  the  park 
over  the  wall,  we  climbed  over  the  gate  into  the 
graveyard,  not  to  look  for  Covenanter  rhymes, 
but  for  the  names  of  James  Tennant  and  of 
** winsome  Willie''  Simpson,  poet  and  school- 
master in  Ochiltree,  with  whom  Burns  once 
made  a  compact  to  cause  the  rivers  of  Ayrshire 
to  be  renowned  in  song : 

** Ramsay  an'  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  an'  Tay  a  lift  aboon; 
Yarrow  an'  Tweed,  to  monie  a  tune, 
Owre  Scotland  rings, 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  19 

While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  an'  Doon 
Naebody  sings. 

**Th'  missus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an'  Seine 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line; 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine. 

An'  cock  your  crest. 
We'll  gar  our  streams  an'  burnies  shine 

Up  wi'  the  best." 

In  the  same  epistle  come  the  delicious  lines : 

**The  Muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel'  he  learned  to  wander 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 

An'  no  think  lang; 
Oh,  sweet  to  stray  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  heartfelt  sang." 

The  satirical  postscript  to  this  epistle  gives  an 
amusing  explanation  of  the  points  at  issue  be- 
tween the  Auld  Licht  and  the  New  Licht  min- 
isters, just  **a  moonshine  matter."  As  to  the 
issue  between  the  poet  on  the  one  hand  and 
Scotch  religion  on  the  other,  no  traveller  in 
Ayrshire  is  permitted  to  remain  indifferent. 
The  conviction  grows  upon  one  that  the  greatest 
song-writer  of  modern  times,  perhaps  of  all 
time,  was  scarcely  less  remarkable  as  a  satirist. 
These  fields  and  clustered  villages  presented  to 
his  penetrating  gaze  an  abbreviated  world. 
Knowing  the  virtues  and  follies,  the  enthusi- 
asms, the  hypocrisies,  the  labours  and  sports. 


20  DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

the  comedies  and  tragedies  of  Kyle — this  little 
district  which  formed  for  him  one  community, 
in  the  heart  of  Ayrshire — ^he  was  able  to  in- 
struct the  world.  He  did  for  Scotland  what  La- 
fontaine  in  a  more  conspicuous,  though  really 
narrower  sphere,  did  for  France  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  He  drew  up  closer  to  the  ob- 
jects of  his  attack  than  even  Voltaire  or  Swift. 
What  he  ridiculed  was  not,  generally,  the  per- 
versity or  the  stupidity  of  a  nation,  but  some 
immediate  departure  from  natural  and  humane 
conduct,  something  at  Tarbolton  or  Mauchline 
which  touched  him  unpleasantly.  Hence  his 
passion.  True,  he  professed  a  rationalistic  phi- 
losophy, derived  from  the  dominant  French 
writers  of  the  age  and  the  British  deists ;  but  in 
large  measure  his  views  of  life  originated  in  his 
own  experience,  and  of  course  they  were  vital- 
ized with  personal  feeling  and  winged  with  local 
phrases.  Thus  he  gave  a  humourous  rather 
than  a  bitter  turn  to  his  satire.  He  knew  its  ob- 
jects, in  most  cases,  as  **brither  sinners"  and 
fellow  Ayrshiremen.  The  undeniable  virtues 
of  most  of  them  were  present  in  his  mind,  along 
with  their  odious  orthodoxy.  His  own  short- 
comings, too,  made  it  impossible  for  him,  Rob 
the  Ranter,  to  set  up  as  a  quite  serious  judge  of 
morals.  Hence  his  good-nature.  And  on  the 
whole,  then,  it  was  instinct,  not  theory,  personal 


HEAET  OF  AYRSHIEE  21 

grievance,  not  party  prejudice,  that  brougM 
him  to  a  glow.  On  the  unequal  distribution  of 
wealth,  for  instance,  he  is  excited  to  comment 
by  thinking  how  easily  he,  a  hard-working,  well- 
meaning  young  man,  may  be  reduced 

*  *  To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e  'en, 

When  banes  are  crazed,  and  bluid  is  thin'*; 

though  the  reflection  takes  a  wider  sweep  and 
is  tinged  with  the  revolutionary  feeling  of  Rous- 
seau, when  he  cries : 

**It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank, 
It's  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'on  bank. 

To  purchase  peace  and  rest; 
It's  no  in  making  muckle  mair. 
It's  no  in  books,  it's  no  in  lear. 

To  make  us  truly  blest: 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast. 
We  may  be  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
But  never  can  be  blest. 

Nae  treasures,  nor  pleasures 
Could  make  us  happy  lang ; 
The  heart  aye's  the  part  aye 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang." 

On  the  harshness  of  church  discipline  and  the 
hypocrisy  of  some  who  make  profession  of  re- 
ligion, he  is  called  to  express  himself  when, 
shamed  yet  defiant,  he  flings  out  of  meeting  af- 
ter being  disciplined  for  his  misdeeds ;  but  from 
the  ** Epistle  to  John  Rankine,"  full  of  personal 


22  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

bitterness  and  the  consciousness  of  guilt,  there 
is  a  long  step  upward  to  the  good  sense,  clear 
rationalism,  and  strong  public  interest  of  *  *  The 
Holy  Fair.''  What  **Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o' 
Bonnie  Doon"  is  to  other  songs  **The  Holy- 
Fair"  is  to  other  satires.  It  is  altogether 
Scotch.  It  is  provincial — nay,  purely  local.  It 
records  a  moment  in  the  personal  life  of  Burns. 
Yet  for  all  that,  the  wide  world  feels  it.  A  fable 
of  Lafontaine,  a  conte  of  Voltaire,  does  not 
blight  a  more  universal  crop  of  vanities. 

To  the  uninstructed  or  the  innocent  the  verses 
of  this  rankling  satire  may  have  appeared  a 
lyrical  outpouring,  here  sweet,  there  gay  and 
wanton.  Certainly  no  opening  could  be  more 
demure  than  the  first  lines : 

**Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn 

And  snuff  the  caller  air. 
The  rising  sun  o'er  Galston  muirs 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin'; 
The  hares  were  hirplin'  down  the  furs; 
The  laverocks  they  were  chantin', 

Fu'  sweet  that  day." 

The  frank  young  ploughman,  thus  early  abroad, 
and  surveying  the  acres  which  have  been  the 
scene  of  his  week's  labour,  encounters  ** three 
hizzies,"  whom  he  describes  in  a  manner  that 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIEE  23 

puts  prose  paraphrase  to  shame.  They  are 
Superstition,  Hypocrisy,  and  Fun.  He  accom- 
panies them  to  the  open-air  service  held  in 
Mauchline  churchyard,  and  pictures  with  in- 
tense animosity  the  ministers  from  that  and 
neighbouring  parishes  whom  he  finds  preaching 
there.  No  doubt  the  portraits  were  sufficiently 
accurate  to  cause  dismay,  but  whether  they 
were  just  is  another  question.  A  great  literary 
genius  has  an  immense  advantage  with  poster- 
ity as  against  even  a  whole  presbytery.  It  may 
well  be  that  of  his  originals  some  were  bigoted, 
some  sensual,  some  double-faced;  but  it  is  not 
likely  that  they  were,  as  a  whole,  either  worse 
or  better  than  other  men  of  the  same  profes- 
sion. Merely  it  was  their  misfortune  to  have 
this  young  farmer  for  a  neighbour.  And  so  it 
is  best  not  to  regard  **The  Holy  Fair''  as  a  con- 
tribution to  the  history  of  Scotland.  Yet  there 
was  no  doubt  a  particular  remoteness  from  re- 
ality in  the  religion  of  that  time  and  country. 
Strained,  abstract,  unnatural,  tending  to  create 
a  hierarchy  of  domineering  '* divines''  and  a 
mob  of  **yill-caup  commentators,"  who  raised 
a  din  **wi'  logic  an'  wi'  Scripture,"  it  was 
transparent  moonshine  to  a  man  whom  Nature 
had  brought  up  at  her  own  knee.  Between  the 
Poet  and  the  Priest  such  warfare  goes  on  for- 


24  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

ever.  Clearly  the  advantage  this  time  was  with 
the  Poet. 

As  I  stood  in  Mauchline  graveyard,  halfway 
between  the  church  and  the  tavern,  the  sun  was 
darkened  and  a  sense  of  oppression  seized  me. 
The  town  appeared  sunken,  dingy.  Here,  in  the 
field  where  they  once  held  high  jurisdiction, 
moulder  ^^Holy  Willie'^  and  ** Daddy''  Auld. 
Over  yonder  is  the  one  small  room  where  the 
great  poet  began  housekeeping  as  a  married 
man.  Here  the  battle  went  hard  with  him.  It 
could  not  have  been  cheerful  to  look  every  day 
upon  a  graveyard  and  brood  over  the  excessive 
claims  of  an  unamiable  religion.  The  intellec- 
tual companionship  afforded  by  the  masonic 
lodge  in  Tarbolton  must  have  been  pitifully  in- 
adequate for  a  man  of  whom  the  wits  of  Edin- 
burgh declared  that  his  genius  flamed  more 
brightly  in  his  conversation  than  in  his  poetry. 
Temptation  to  drink  was  strong,  and  opportun- 
ity to  drink  abounded  on  every  hand.  We  are 
here  in  touch  with  squalor.  The  thought  of  his 
manly  heart  enduring  such  contact  and  his  no- 
ble powers  thus  hemmed  in  was  suffocating. 

Out  of  Mauchline  we  climbed  into  the  purer 
air  and  sweeter  associations  of  Mossgiel  Farm. 
We  took  shelter  in  the  house  from  a  shower, 
and  conversed  with  the  farmer,  whose  father 
held  the  lease  fifty  years  ago  and  was  separated 


HEART  OF  AYRSHIRE  25 

by  but  one  other  tenant  from  Robert  and  Gil- 
bert Burns.  In  their  time  the  leasehold  was  for 
about  one  hundred  acres.  The  present  two- 
story  farmhouse  is  built  up  on  the  walls  of  the 
old  one-story  cottage  which  they  occupied. 
They  were  not  successful  farmers,  but  the  poet 
was  happy  at  Mossgiel.  Here  flowed  his  most 
spontaneous  verse.  From  these  high-lying 
fields  he  swept  with  a  glance  the  world  which 
was  the  subject  of  his  sagacious  comment.  It  is 
no  longer  deemed  sufficient  to  qualify  Burns  as 
a  sweet  songwriter  in  the  Doric.  His  is  by  far 
the  best  poetry  the  British  Isles  can  boast,  from 
the  death  of  Milton  till  near  the  opening  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  And  perhaps  no  more  dis- 
cerning eye,  no  more  comprehensive  under- 
standing, no  more  penetrating  judgment  ever 
in  that  time  surveyed  the  conduct  of  men. 
What  an  amazing  thought — that  a  few  rural 
parishes,  between  Ochiltree  on  the  west  and 
Tarbolton  on  the  east,  afforded  sufficient  train- 
ing and  sufficient  scope  to  this  critical  genius, 
gave  him  knowledge  and  occasion! 

Tarbolton  and  Catrine  and  Lochlea,  we  saw 
them  all,  but  Ochiltree  was  still  our  centre,  and 
**0h,  if  I  could  only  have  ye  here  for  a  fort- 
night," sighed  our  genial  friend,  **I  would 
make  ye  love  the  place  so  ye  couldna  leave  it. ' ' 
I  will  not  pretend  that  I  think  George  Douglas 


26  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Brown  the  most  important  Scottish  novelist 
since  Stevenson,  and  perhaps  to  say  that  would 
mean  little;  but  his  birthplace  may  well  be 
proud  of  him  for  a  true  observer  and  a  faithful 
artist.  An  old  grey  manor-house  that  witnessed 
the  nuptials  of  two  such  **  marshals  of  the 
world"  as  Knox  and  Claverhouse,  is  something, 
too.  I  may  be  right  or  I  may  be  wrong  in  think- 
ing that  the  man  of  letters  who  most  completely 
and  entertainingly  represented  British  life  and 
thought  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  James 
Boswell;  but  it  is  not  with  indifference  that  a 
person  walking  down  Ochiltree  street  beholds 
fronting  him  Auchinleck  estate,  of  which  Bozzy 
was  so  proud  and  whither  he  led  a  greater  man, 
though  less  readable  author,  than  himself.  In 
and  around  Ochiltree  lived  James  Tennant  and 
Willie  Simpson  and  other  of  Burns 's  dearest 
friends,  and  it  is  by  far  the  prettiest  village  in 
the  heart  of  the  Burns  country.  I  remember 
it  best  as  it  reposed  in  the  faint  sunshine  of  late 
afternoon  and  on  through  the  lingering  mid- 
summer twilight,  at  the  home-coming  of  the 
rooks  and  the  play-hour  of  door-step  toddlers, 
when  the  blue  smoke  from  a  hundred  cottages 
proclaimed  that  crowdie-time  had  come,  and 
the  croon  of  soft  voices  floated  up  the  brae. 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE 

Keith^s  Diary,  June  30 

Barlow  declared  Ilfracombe  was  ** fly-blown," 
meaning  that  it  was  too  full  of  people  and  the 
marks  of  their  presence.  He  is  over-dainty,  of 
course,  but  I  agreed  to  go  with  him  to  Clovelly. 
We  came  in  a  side-wheel  steamer,  sighting  Ap- 
pledore  and  Bideford  on  our  left  and  the  Welsh 
coast  far  off  to  the  right.  The  voyage  was 
rough,  and  many  of  our  fellow-passengers  laid 
aside  ^^Lorna  Doone*'  and  ** Westward  Ho!'* 
and  all  other  matters  of  romantic  interest  be- 
fore it  was  over.  We  had  not  long  rounded  the 
cruel  reefs  of  Morte  Point  when  a  white  streak 
became  visible  on  the  face  of  the  cliff  toward 
which  we  were  headed.  The  latter  grew  less 
uniform  in  appearance.  It  showed  green  pres- 
ently and  proved  to  be  covered  from  top  to  bot- 
tom with  a  tufted  forest.  The  white  streak  re- 
solved itself  into  cottages,  rising  one  above  an- 
other from  the  water's  edge  nearly  to  the  top 
of  the  cliff.  A  grey-stone  pier,  mottled  with 
rusty  brown  and  curved  somewhat  like  a  fish- 
hook, hid  the  hulls  of  several  sailing  craft.    We 

27 


28  DREAMS  AND  MEMOEIES 

could  see  their  masts  rocking.  A  life-boat  sta- 
tion flanked  this  little  harbour  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  stood  a  modest  inn,  built  of  stone, 
but  comfortably  softened  with  a  cream-colour 
wash.  A  long  black  habitation  hung  imminent 
above  the  water  beyond  the  life-boat  station, 
looking  grim  with  its  struggle  to  keep  a  foot- 
hold betwixt  the  wooded  precipice  that  crowded 
down  upon  it  and  the  waves  that  reached  greed- 
ily at  its  barred  windows.  Between  the  inn  and 
this  group  of  buildings,  which  spoke  hoarsely  of 
winter's  danger,  three  or  four  balconied  cot- 
tages stood  securely  behind  a  sea-wall.  They 
were  gay  with  creepers  and  flowering  plants. 
Their  casements  were  open  to  receive  the  sun- 
light. 

A  steep  path,  or  rather  stairway,  wound  up 
from  the  quay,  passing  the  inn  door,  then  going 
over  a  lime-kiln,  which  is  constantly  and  excus- 
ably taken  for  a  barbican,  and  then  rising  be- 
hind the  cheerful  cottages.  It  passed  through  a 
square  hole  under  a  house,  and  its  further 
climbing  could  only  be  divined  from  the  group- 
ing of  the  white  dwellings  far  up  the  combe,  or 
cleft,  above. 

We  were  landed  in  boats  rowed  by  bearded 
men  in  blue  sou 'westers.  As  it  was  ebb-tide, 
they  were  obliged  to  beach  outside  the  harbour. 
In  spite  of  half  a  dozen  sailors  who  tried  to  pull 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      29 

us  up  by  the  bow,  we  shipped  a  sea  over  our 
stern  and  were  dumped  dripping  on  the  shingle. 
We  have  now  been  two  days  in  Clovelly,  and 
this  buffet  was  the  only  touch  of  roughness  we 
have  received.  All  else  has  been  soft  and  ca- 
ressing. We  sought  lodgings  no  farther  than 
the  Bed  Lion,  the  little  inn  by  the  quay,  and 
have  not  regretted  our  choice. 

I  had  been  told  that  Clovelly  was  overrun 
with  visitors,  and  it  would  not  be  difficult  to 
overrun  a  place  so  tiny,  but  northwest  winds 
and  threatening  skies  have  kept  down  the  num- 
ber of  excursionists  by  water.  There  are  a 
good  many  Americans,  who  come  by  motor-car, 
in  unconsidering  and  inconsiderate  haste.  We 
prefer  to  be  the  only  Americans  in  a  place,  but 
it  is  seldom  possible.  Barlow,  who  is  of  pure 
English  descent  and  full  of  the  English  tradi- 
tion, pretends  to  think  we  are  not  already  a  dis- 
tinct race.  To  me  it  is  plain  we  are.  We  have 
a  national  physiognomy,  a  national  gait,  not  to 
mention,  nor  yet  to  deny,  a  national  voice. 

The  Devonshire  accent  is  delicious.  It  has 
the  softness  of  the  west  wind.  It  is  warm  and 
open,  like  the  sunny  downs  of  Exmoor.  Its 
honest  burr  of  r,  not  quite  so  strong  as  that  in 
Scotland  and  more  like  the  best  Pennsylvanian, 
seems  to  me  the  normal  English  pronunciation 
of  that  oft-maltreated  letter.    Milton,  we  know, 


30  DREAMS  A^B  MEMORIES 

thought  it  should  be  vigourously  trilled,  a  real 
consonant.  The  common  people  of  Devonshire 
do  not  drawl.  Their  vowels,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions, come  out  clean-cut,  which  gives  the  speak- 
ers an  air  of  bravery.  They  are  not  prolonged 
into  diphthongs  as  in  the  fashionable  speech  of 
the  midlands.  I  like  to  think  that  Drake  man- 
aged it  thus  roundly,  and  Raleigh  and  Gilbert 
and  Hawkins,  and  Grenville.  Curiously,  how- 
ever, there  is  a  French  u  on  this  coast.  Clovelly 
folk  speak  of  Bude,  a  port  farther  down  the 
coast,  almost  precisely  as  a  Frenchman  would 
pronounce  the  word.  The  personal  pronouns 
are  used  with  delightful  indifference  to  the  pre- 
rogatives of  case.  **Her  be  a-coomin'  toward 
we '  ^  is  good  grammer  in  Clovelly. 

These  are  not  the  things  I  came  to  England 
to  observe.  I  ought  to  be  in  the  big  ** fly-blown'' 
towns,  studying  politics  and  the  social  order,  or 
disorder.  I  was  carrying  out  my  plan  quite 
satisfactorily  in  London,  sitting  in  the  gallery 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  hearing  the  open-air 
debaters  in  Hyde  Park,  and  reading  the  news- 
papers. As  John  Burns  says,  London  is  as 
good  as  the  country  in  summer,  with  the  turf  in 
the  parks  free  to  every  foot,  and  the  quiet  of  its 
asphalted  streets. 

It's  Barlow's  fault.  He  persuaded  me  that 
I  ought  to  study  the  question  of  public  owner- 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      31 

ship  in  a  region  abounding  in  large  estates, 
where  small  farmers,  tradesmen,  and  artisans 
have  to  accommodate  themselves  as  best  they 
can  to  conditions  that  are  still  virtually  feudal. 
He  was  mistaken.  There  would  have  been  more 
practical  use  in  studying  the  problems  of  indus- 
trial centres,  which  present  a  closer  analogy  to 
circumstances  at  home.  The  old  conditions  of 
rural  and  village  life  have  passed  or  are  rapidly 
passing.  England  has  adopted,  very  quietly  but 
thoroughly,  the  principle  of  progressive  taxa- 
tion, dropping  the  old  individualistic  theory,  es- 
pecially in  her  land  laws.  We  shall  come  to 
that,  of  course,  but  legislation  to  protect  our  in- 
dustrial workers  is  what  we  need  first.  And 
here  am  I,  in  the  loveliest  and  perhaps  happiest 
village  in  England,  where  I  should  have  been 
perfectly  happy  myself  three  years  ago,  and 
could  be  happy  to-morrow  if  I  allowed  myself 
to  forget  my  duty  and  the  wretchedness  of  man- 
kind. 

Barlow  *s  Diary,  June  30 

Keith  is  a  hard  fellow  to  please.  He  has  ab- 
solutely no  cause  for  unhappiness  except  the 
order  of  the  universe.  He  would  like  to  change 
that.  When  he  is  hard  at  work  he  is  gay  as  a 
lark,  because  he  fancies  he  is  changing  the  order 
of  the  universe.    On  a  holiday  he  makes  himself 


32  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

miserable  with  self-reproach.  Not  that  he  is 
afflicted  with  that  mania  for  work  which  so 
many  business  men  acquire.  He  is  naturally 
fond  of  leisure.  His  affliction  is  an  extraordi- 
nary self-esteem,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  crav- 
ing for  self-esteem.  No,  I  am  unjust  to  him. 
He  loves  mankind  and  has  a  clear  conception  of 
a  perfect  state  of  existence  attainable  in  this 
world.  When  he  is  teaching  his  boys  at  school 
he  is  calm  because  he  thinks  he  is  helping  them 
on  to  that  bright  day.  But  in  the  vacations  he 
is  consumed  with  the  rage  of  achievement.  He 
wants  to  take  God's  work  out  of  His  hands.  I 
shall  tell  him  so. 

For  me,  Clovelly  is  enough.  I  would  willing- 
ly stay  here  all  summer.  I  learned  something 
from  an  old  sailor  this  afternoon.  He  was  on 
the  pier,  scanning  the  horizon  with  his  glass, 
which  he  politely  offered  to  me  for  a  look.  He 
said  he  lived  alone  in  the  middle  compartment 
of  the  long  house  beyond  the  life-saving  station, 
and  invited  me  to  see  his  rooms.  We  had  a  pipe 
or  two  together,  though  he  admitted  he  pre- 
ferred *^ chawing.''  He  is  in  his  ninetieth  year 
and  has  sailed,  he  said,  in  the  four  quarters  of 
the  globe.  There  is  no  mark  of  feebleness  in 
his  deep-seamed  face  nor  in  the  sweet  accents  of 
his  voice. 

**I  call  it  my  cabin,"  he  remarked,  as  we  en- 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      33 

tered  his  low-ceiled  kitchen.  **You  will  notice 
there  are  cupboards  all  round.  One  of  them 
goes  the  whole  length  of  the  house.  That  was 
of  use  in  smuggling  times.  I  keep  my  nets 
there  now. ' '  He  told  me  about  the  drowning  of 
thirty  Clovelly  men  in  one  night,  fishing  for 
herring,  and  of  twenty  men  drowned  another 
night,  and  of  his  own  narrow  escape  when 
driven  ashore  in  a  squall,  and  of  the  starving 
years  before  Free-Trade  lowered  the  price  of 
food.  **I  don't  really  see,''  and  his  deep  voice 
trembled,  **how  any  poor  man  that  works  for 
his  living  can  be  a  Tory.  I  know  there  is  some, 
but  I  don't  understand  it.  They  never  came 
through  the  hungry  forties,  when  I  declare  I 
dunno  how  my  poor  dear  old  father  and  mother 
kept  us  alive." 

He  dwelt  on  the  kindness  of  the  lady  who 
owns  Clovelly  and  to  whose  control  we  are  no 
doubt  indebted  for  its  preservation  as  a  thing  of 
beauty.  He  seems  content  to  let  God  govern  the 
world.  I'll  not  stand  it  if  Keith  calls  him  a 
deluded  victim  of  feudalism.  He  is  a  happier 
man  than  Keith,  and  a  better  man,  I  dare  say, 
than  either  Keith  or  I.  One  thing,  however,  I 
can't  comprehend:  he  is  a  dissenter  and  goes  to 
the  little  bare  chapel  in  the  village  rather  than 
to  the  ancient  church  beside  Clovelly  Court 
above.    Think  what  he  loses  I    Association,  even 


34  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

remote  and  humble,  with  persons  of  culture, 
the  instruction  of  a  rector  educated  at  a  uni- 
versity, the  privilege  of  worshipping  in  a  church 
that  is  nearly  a  thousand  years  old,  where 
prayer  has  been  offered  by  thirty  unbroken 
generations,  and  where  the  dead  lie  in  their 
eternal  peace.  Perhaps  there  is  something  of 
the  Keith  spirit  in  old  Mr.  Bate,  something 
restless,  ambitious  of  perfection.  For  I  am 
sure  Keith  will  glory  in  the  **  spiritual  recti- 
tude, * '  the  independence,  of  these  sailor-folk,  as 
I  am  pleased  with  whatever  sensible  conformity 
to  good  old  practices  lingers  still  in  nooks  like 
this.  For  have  not  I,  too,  an  ideal  of  perfec- 
tion? Is  not  Clovelly,  aristocratically  gov- 
erned, an  earthly  paradise  I  And  a  religion  that 
satisfies  the  heart,  and  trains  the  eye  and  ear, 
and  responds  copiously  to  the  demands  of  the 
historic  sense,  and  links  past,  present,  and  fu- 
ture in  one  living  age,  a  religion  practical,  na- 
tional, and  sufficiently  broad  to  give  scope  to 
every  type  and  almost  every  mood — is  not  this, 
too,  better  than  Keith's  unrealized  society,  with 
its  bare  minimum  of  common  logical  ground?  I 
say  ** almost  every  mood*'  because  I  perceive  at 
times  myself  how  preposterous  are  some  of  the 
claims  put  forth  in  behalf  of  these  venerable  in- 
stitutions, and  feel  no  less  keenly  than  Keith 
that  a  great  renovating  change  is  impending. 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      35 

But  I  shall  never  move  a  hand  to  bring  it  about. 
To  restore  an  ancient  edifice  involves  the  de- 
struction of  its  ivy  and  its  crannied  flowers. 
Beauty  has  no  place  in  Keith's  plan,  though  I 
am  far  from  denying  that  he  appreciates  it. 
The  city  park,  free  to  all  and  enjoyed  by  all, 
is  heavenly  to  him  because  of  its  common  util- 
ity. The  most  glorious  mountain-top,  the  love- 
liest glen,  the  fairest  island,  if  unviewed  by 
man,  or  indeed  by  whole  troops  of  men,  are 
heart-sores  to  him.  They  exist  in  vain  and 
serve  only  to  remind  him  of  their  opposites,  the 
back  yards  of  city  slums.  He  has  persuaded 
himself  that  humanity  is  all.  Some  French 
writer  has  said  that  many  a  man  of  forty  car- 
ries a  dead  poet  in  his  heart.  Keith  is  drawing 
near  the  fatal  quarantaine.  He  tries  not  to  be- 
lieve in  abstractions,  in  absolutes.  Ignorant  of 
the  higher  mathematics,  with  its  proud  indiffer- 
ence to  man,  a  rebel  to  the  faith,  which  sets  man 
in  his  true  place,  he  is  approaching  a  point 
where  the  best  poetry  and  art  and  music  will 
seem  cruelly  useless.  Only  agriculture  and  eco- 
nomics will  be  worth  while.  Social  utility  is  to 
him  all  in  all.  And  then  if  his  belief  in  human 
nature  should  receive  a  shock — ^what  ruin  I 

Meanwhile,  the  sea  breathes  wooingly  be- 
neath her  sapphire  belt;  long  sprays  of  roses 
waft  their  perfumes  at  the  sun;  every  cottage 


36  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

along  the  stair  that  winds  from  harbour  to  cliff 
top  is  like  a  lovely  face,  shining  with  inward 
purity  and  peace.  Beauty,  an  immortal  god- 
dess, vindicates  her  quiet  claims,  and  all  man- 
kind are  as  truly  strangers  in  the  world  as 
Keith  and  I  in  Clovelly. 

Keith's  Diary,  July  1 

It  is  raining  softly.  The  tide  is  out.  The  sea 
no  longer  moans  on  the  shingle,  but  laps  it  with 
entreating  hand.  My  little  casement  opens  on 
the  water.  A  fishing  fleet,  eleven  sail  in  all, 
lies  becalmed  in  the  bay.  The  environing  cliffs 
have  lost  their  colour  and  a  certain  terror  they 
possessed  last  night.  No  visitors  will  arrive  in 
Clovelly  this  morning.  Even  the  gulls  have 
flown  away,  and  I  hear  a  cock  crowing.  I  feel 
no  impulse  to  climb  up  the  street.  Somehow, 
on  such  days  as  this  I  am  less  troubled  by  the 
thought  of  **the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin.'' 
To  be  a  man,  to  have  the  power  of  thought,  to 
accept  one's  limitations  and  one's  place  in  the 
world,  to  suffer  no  remorse,  to  cherish  no  in- 
ordinate ambitions,  to  love  and  be  loved,  to  be 
willing  to  work,  but  not  to  seek  employment 
over-eagerly — can  this  be  wrong,  after  all?  In 
brilliant  weather  the  nerves  have  a  more  elastic 
impulse  and  give  more  pain.    I  am  certainly  in 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      37 

no  heroic  mood,  but  indeed  my  heroic  moods 
have  ever  been  fruitless. 

Barlow  dropped  his  aggressive  manner  with 
me  last  night,  when  we  were  walking  together 
at  the  pier-head  and  the  cry  of  the  shingle  was 
making  me  suffer. 

** Keith,"  he  said  in  his  gentlest  voice,  **you 
harm  yourself  and  do  nobody  any  good  by  think- 
ing always  of  the  evil  in  the  world." 

*  *  But  the  evil  poisons  all  the  rest, ' '  I  replied. 
**We  have  memories,  we  have  imaginations,  we 
cannot  help  being  conscious  of  what  is  going  on 
in  distant  places.  We  are  cowards  and  rene- 
gades not  to  be  at  work  for  those  who  are 
weaker,  poorer,  more  ignorant  than  ourselves. ' ' 

**I  never  thought  you  a  pessimist,"  he  con- 
tinued, **and  of  course  you  are  not,  or  you 
would  not  consider  it  worth  while  to  worry ;  but 
look  out!  for  pessimism  will  come  next.  Un- 
less you  believe  that  God  can  take  care  of 
the  world  without  your  aid  you  will  fall  into 
despair,  for  you  realize  only  too  keenly  your 
own  impotence.  By  constantly  finding  fault 
with  what  exists,  you  are  elevating  criticism  to 
a  place  of  undue  importance  as  the  chief  of 
virtues.  There  are  only  two  commandments  in 
your  code :    '  Seek  evil, '  and  *  rest  not. '  ' ' 

'*0h  no.  Barlow!"  I  laughed,  **that  is  the 
devil's  duologue,  and  the  difference  is  in  the 


38  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

purpose.  *  Seek  evil  to  destroy  it,  and  rest  not, ' 
were  indeed  a  divine  and  not  a  devilish  cogni- 
zance. ' ' 

**No,'*  said  Barlow  after  a  long  pause,  **I 
think  you  are  mistaken.  There  is  something 
essentially  the  matter  with  that  device.  *  Search 
out  the  good,  and  trust  in  God'  is  a  better  rub- 
ric. It  is  positive;  it  fronts  the  sunlight;  it  is 
humbler  than  yours  and  easier  to  follow,  and 
yet  more  exalted.  In  your  revolt  against  our 
wasteful  American  optimism,  against  the  un- 
thinking, ill-directed  demand  for  enthusiastic 
action,  you  are  in  danger  of  withholding  your 
hand  from  the  common  task  and  refusing  the 
common  refreshment  of  joy  and  hope.  You  will 
unfit  yourself  to  be  a  gardener  of  souls,  which 
is  your  chosen  work.  If  you  were  a  gardener  of 
cabbages  you  would  not  fret  overnight  because 
you  were  not  stirring  the  soil.  You  would  know 
that  the  cabbages  and  yourself  were  better  for 
the  respite  and  that  darkness  and  rain  were 
part  of  the  providential  regimen  of  plants. ' ' 

It  was  very  thoughtful  of  Barlow  to  talk  to 
me  thus.  I  suppose  the  peace  I  feel  this  morn- 
ing is  due  in  part  to  his  influence.  It  was  par- 
ticularly kind  in  him  because  he  is  not  a  merely 
passive  creature.  Nor  does  he  live  by  the  will 
and  the  emotions  only,  as  most  men  do  who 
speak  that  language.    Reason  too  has  her  part 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      39 

in  him.  He  would  have  no  authority  with  me  if 
it  were  not  so.  And  really  Barlow,  when  he 
takes  pains,  can  make  me  see  things  as  they 
look  to  him.  Many  men  glory  in  the  fact  that 
their  deepest  life  is  instinctive.  They  believe, 
so  they  say,  because  they  feel.  Perhaps  they 
overlook  some  obscure  rational  process  that 
goes  on  within  them.  Otherwise,  it  seems  to 
me,  if  their  account  of  themselves  be  correct, 
they  are  not  very  different  from  the  birds,  who 
build  nests  and  find  food  by  inherited  habits. 
It  should  be  the  glory  of  a  man  to  exceed  that 
mark.  I  have  been  disappointed  to  find  how 
often  a  rooted  distrust  of  reason  shows  itself 
in  conversation  among  Englishmen.  I  had  ex- 
pected a  more  bracing  tone  from  the  country- 
men of  Mill  and  Morley.  The  conflict  between 
habit  and  sentiment  on  the  one  hand  and  ra- 
tional endeavour  on  the  other  lends  an  almost 
painful  interest  to  travelling  in  England,  for 
in  no  other  country  are  these  opposites  so  fully 
developed. 

Barlow's  Diary y  July  1. 

A  fine  race,  these  fishermen!  IVe  been  talk- 
ing with  several  of  them.  They  speak  famil- 
iarly of  Quebec  and  Norfolk,  of  Cape  Town  and 
the  Mediterranean.  Some  have  been  masters 
of  vessels,  some  have  been  mates.     The  main 


40  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

part  of  them  are  elderly.  All  have  soft  deep 
voices,  quiet  manners,  and  a  neat  appearance. 
Half  a  dozen  of  them  are  usually  to  be  found 
sitting  on  a  bench  below  my  window.  I  have 
not  heard  them  utter  a  rude  word,  and  they  are 
always  lending  a  hand  to  somebody,  a  child,  an 
old  woman,  an  inquiring  stranger.  When  the 
tide  is  out  they  look  to  the  moorings  of  their 
boats  or  inspect  seams  and  tackle,  for  then  the 
armful  of  space  inside  the  pier  is  dry.  A  fall 
from  the  pier-head  would  mean  forty  feet  onto 
hard  rock.  Their  activities  are  chiefly  two. 
They  row  out  to  meet  steamers,  from  which 
they  land  passengers  and  baggage.  In  this 
work  they  are  a  co-operative  society,  putting 
their  profits  into  a  common  pool.  Then  there  is 
the  fishing.  Last  night  when  I  went  to  bed, 
three  sloops  lay  high  and  dry  just  outside  my 
window,  which  opens  on  the  harbour,  while 
Keith's  looks  out  to  sea.  This  morning  they 
were  gone.  It  was  full  tide  about  three  o'clock, 
and  water  enough  then,  but  how  silently  the 
men  must  have  worked!  They  catch  sole  and 
plaice  and  conger-eels.  In  winter  they  fish  for 
herring,  and  Clovelly  herring  have  a  high  repu- 
tation. 

**When  you  roast  them  over  the  fire  they  drip 
oil  like  a  rasher  of  fat  bacon ;  I  wish  I  had  a-got 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      41 

one  for  my  supper  this  evening,"  said  old  Mr. 
Bate,  his  face  lighting  up. 

'*The  conger  is  the  curiousest  fish,"  he  re- 
sumed, striking  a  match  on  the  kitchen  stove, 
which  is  not  at  all  like  an  American  range,  be- 
ing built  for  greater  economy  of  fuel.  **I've 
never  been  able  to  make  out  how  her  breeds. 
Cut  her  open,  and  there's  nawthing  inside. 
And  her  do  bark  like  a  dog,  as  you  know. ' ' 

Because  of  the  rain,  his  little  room  looked 
more  than  ever  like  a  ship's  cabin.  My  head 
almost  touched  the  ceiling,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
nearly  every  necessary  of  life  was  contained 
within  the  four  walls.  The  deep  window,  wider 
than  it  was  high,  gave  sight  of  heaving  water 
and  no  land,  for  the  cliffs  were  shrouded  in 
mist.  The  spaces  not  taken  up  with  cupboard 
doors  were  mostly  filled  with  pictures  of  ves- 
sels, one  a  bark  of  which  the  old  man's  eldest 
son  is  master,  trading  between  Australia  and 
Chili. 

*'I've  worked  hard,  sir,  in  my  time,"  he  said, 
as  he  looked  at  the  pictures.  **A  sailor  had 
small  wages  then.  What  do  you  think  of  fower 
pound  a  month  for  a  master,  and  two  pound  or 
two  pound  five  for  an  able-bodied  seaman?  I 
useded  to  wonder,  I  did,  how  the  missus  made 
out.    Of  course  I  had  a-got  to  spend  a  little  on 


42  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

tobacco  and  washing. ' '  I  had  always  supposed 
sailors  did  their  own  washing. 

**IVe  often  thought  I  should  like  to  live  at 
Norfolk,  in  Virginia.  That's  the  only  port  in 
America  I  ever  was  in  except  Quebec.  We  went 
ashore,  some  of  us,  at  Norfolk,  to  seek  a  house 
of  worship,  and  found  a  building  from  which 
there  came  forth  a  great  sound.  When  us 
looked  into  mun,  what  do  you  think  we  seed! 
Black  men  a- singing,  with  teeth  that  white  I 
sha'n't  forget  'em!  And  all  jumping  up  and 
down  and  shouting  and  the  preacher  not  a- 
heeding  of  them,  not  a  bit,  but  a-preaching 
away. ' ' 

It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  talk  with  Mr. 
Bate  that  it  need  not  be  consecutive.  There 
was  a  long  pause  and  a  relighting  of  pipes  be- 
fore he  resumed :  '*!  remember  the  press-gang. 
I  recollect,  when  I  was  a  boy,  seeing  a  man — 
oh,  I've  seed  mun  often — they  useded  to  call 
him  Duckie,"  he  chuckled,  ''who  hid  himself 
every  time  the  press-gang  came.  That  was 
during  the  French  war.  The  press-gang  would 
come  and  take  men  right  on  the  beach  there.  In 
them  days  the  sewer  flowed  right  open  through 
the  midst  of  the  street.  And  it  went  under  his 
house,  and  there  he  would  hide  him.  And 
when  the  women  came  to  feed  mun  they  called, 
'Duckie,  Duckie,  Duckie,'  and  he  always  went 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      43 

by  that  name,  and  IVe  seed  him,  many's  the 
time.  * ' 

He  said  he  had  come  near  going  as  a  mid- 
shipman in  the  Crimean  War.  *^And  I  might 
have  been  a  head  shorter  if  I  had,'*  he  re- 
flected. And  he  then  expressed  his  firm  belief 
that  arbitration  would  henceforth  take  the  place 
of  war.  '*Let  them  that  make  wars  do  the 
fighting,  and  not  cause  the  community  to 
suffer. ' ' 

This  is  a  truly  modern  note  in  the  country  of 
the  old  sea-rovers  and  in  a  village  where 
Charles  Kingsley  once  lived.  Kingsley,  Tenny- 
son, Kipling — shall  we  ever  again  hear  poets 
glorifying  war?  Poets  or  no  poets.  Parliament 
has  voted  to  build  five  new  Dreadnoughts, 
against  the  general  protest  of  thinking  men.  A 
theme  for  Keith!  He,  by  the  way,  is  plucking 
up  a  little.  I  gave  him  a  rating  last  night.  It 
is  a  shame  to  come  to  the  fairest  spot  in  the 
world  and  turn  one's  eyes  inward. 

Keith^s  Diary,  July  2 

I  read  in  a  London  newspaper  this  morning 
that  Americans  have  the  habit  of  making  super- 
ficial generalizations.  The  remark  is  not  pro- 
found. In  fact  I  should  have  said  that  Ameri- 
cans as  a  rule  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  generalize. 
We  rest  content  with  facts  and  their  more  ob- 


44  DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

vious  workings.  As  a  teacher,  my  greatest  diffi- 
culty has  been  to  get  my  pupils  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  ideas.  And  how  often,  when  one  meets 
a  celebrity  and  hopes  to  hear  some  good  con- 
versation, one  is  fobbed  off  with  stories  and 
special  cases !  Anecdotes  are  the  bane  of  good 
table-talk.  It  would  certainly  be  unfair  to  gen- 
eralize from  what  I  have  seen  of  Clovelly.  It 
is  clean ;  but  not  many  villages  have  a  stair  in- 
stead of  a  street.  It  is  quiet ;  but  that  is  because 
the  stair  is  too  steep  for  traffic.  It  is  charm- 
ingly domestic ;  but  that  is  a  mark  of  its  pecul- 
iar political  status,  for  it  is  all  owned  by  one 
person,  who  tolerates  the  existence  of  only  two 
shops.  It  is  vain  to  generalize,  and  yet  I  can- 
not help  drawing  certain  inferences  from  what 
I  see.  Clovelly  is  a  feudal  village  which  has 
come  almost  unscathed  through  the  era  of  indi- 
vidualism and  competitive  industry.  It  should 
be  easy  for  Clovelly  to  find  itself  at  home  in 
the  coming  age  as  a  pure  socialistic  community. 
The  people  have  been  trained  to  mutual  de- 
pendence and  respect.  Their  chief  means  of 
livelihood  is  organized  on  a  co-operative  basis. 
I  see  every  day  many  proofs  of  their  good-will 
toward  one  another.  Their  faces,  voices,  and 
manners  bear  marks  of  habitual  courtesy. 
What  if  there  is  a  patroness  living  at  Clovelly 
Court  to  whom  they  pay  rent  and  whose  regula- 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE     45 

tions  help  to  keep  the  place  free  from  ugliness 
and  internal  rivalry?  The  essential  thing  is 
that,  with  practically  no  competition  among  its 
inhabitants,  Clovelly  appears  happier  and  more 
prosperous  than  any  other  place  I  have  ever 
seen. 

And  as  to  the  effect  of  co-operation  upon  per- 
sonality, the  stale  argument  of  individualists  is 
stunningly  refuted  here.  Clovelly  sailors,  from 
the  time  of  Queen  Bess  to  our  own,  have  set 
their  mark  fairly  high  in  manly  achievement. 
The  flashing  eye,  the  ready  hand,  the  frank 
speech  of  these  good  fellows  do  not  belong  to 
shirks  and  sluggards.  Here  are  men  who  live 
ready  at  any  moment  to  launch  their  life-boat, 
and  women  who  pass  anxious  nights  when  the 
herring-fleet  is  out.  The  coast  is  very  danger- 
ous, and  many  a  vessel  has  been  crunched  by 
the  black  teeth  that  grind  and  foam  off  Hart- 
land  Point.  A  curious  account  of  the  globe 
could  be  compiled  in  Clovelly  from  the  stories 
of  sailors  who  have  been  in  all  its  quarters.  I 
encountered  a  lively  old  chap  breaking  stone  on 
the  Bidef ord  highroad  this  morning.  He  looked 
more  like  a  pirate  than  a  road-mender,  and 
when  I  remarked  that  the  sun  was  hot,  he  wiped 
his  face  and  said:  **I've  seed  mun  at  the  equa- 
tor, and  him's  hotter  yerr."    A  Clovelly  lad 


46  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

came  home  not  long  ago  after  spending  three 
years  on  a  desert  island,  shipwrecked  with  two 
companions. 

Barlow  would  approve  of  what  I  have  writ- 
ten this  morning. 

Barlow's  Diary,  July  2. 

My  plain,  slow  blood  is  all  of  English  deriva- 
tion, I  believe.  That  may  be  one  reason  for  my 
immense  delight  in  this  place.  Where,  I  ask, 
could  one  find  such  an  inn,  except  in  England? 
It  is  as  neat  as  a  model  yacht;  the  wood- work 
shines  white  and  the  brass  knobs  glitter.  The 
deft  maids  move  without  sound.  Up  the  street, 
in  green  door-ways  of  white  cottages,  canaries 
in  their  cages  sing  no  less  happy  than  the  free 
robins  hopping  in  the  gardens.  Gardens !  They 
are  often  only  green  tubs  filled  with  earth,  but 
their  overflow  of  roses  and  fuchsia  makes  a 
bower  of  every  window. 

At  a  certain  time  in  the  afternoon,  when  a 
steamer  has  landed  its  passengers,  signs  are 
shrinkingly  hung  out:  ** Plain  Tea  6d.''  or 
*^Teas,  Beds,  Post-cards'';  but  they  disappear 
again,  as  if  with  relief,  when  the  emergency  is 
over.  From  the  upper  turns  of  the  stair,  the 
sea,  viewed  through  vast  embrasures  of  foliage, 
already  looks  blue  and  distant,  and  we  hear  but 
faintly  the  Yo-ho  of  our  sailor  friends  warping 


NEW  WINE  IN  AN  OLD  BOTTLE      47 

in  a  trawler.  The  characteristic  red  soil  of 
Devon  shows  beneath  the  roots  of  elms  and  oaks 
in  the  high  banks  of  the  sunken  road  that  winds 
away  southward.  There,  in  the  uplands,  are  no 
fences  or  hedges,  properly  speaking.  The  fields 
are  divided  by  dykes  of  stone  filled  and  topped 
with  earth  and  overgrown  with  moss  and  fern. 
Clovelly  Court,  the  ancient  home  of  the  Carys, 
played  a  part  in  sixteenth-century  history, 
American  as  well  as  English,  but  its  aspect  has 
the  uninteresting  smoothness  of  youth  com- 
pared with  the  ramparts  called  Clovelly  Dykes, 
half  a  mile  inland.  This  is  a  vast  enclosure,  of 
prehistoric  antiquity,  in  which  a  whole  tribe  of 
early  Britons  may  have  sheltered  themselves. 

I  feel  perfectly  justified  in  enjoying  a  place 
like  this.  My  conscience  does  not  trouble  me  in 
the  least.  I  am  not  discouraged,  but  delighted, 
to  find  such  perfection,  even  if  the  dominant  in- 
fluence is  aristocratic  and  I  am  a  believer  in 
democracy.  By  patient  attention  to  details  we 
may  at  home  attain  in  time,  in  much  time,  to  an 
equitable  and  settled  order  and  its  fruits  of 
manners  and  beauty.    *  *  Eipeness  is  all. ' ' 

The  contrast  still  troubles  poor  Keith,  though 
his  mind  is  now  working  less  feverishly.  I  shall 
try  to  comfort  him  by  pointing  out  the  greater 
contrast  between  the  clan  who  built  and  de- 
fended that  encampment  in  the  stone  age  and 


48  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

the  splendid  men,  probably  their  descendants, 
who  live  to-day  in  Clovelly.  He  will  argue  that 
painfully  conscious  effort  preceded  every  one 
of  the  myriad  imperceptible  changes  and  that 
often  the  improvement  came  with  a  bound,  when 
the  sum  of  many  efforts  caused  a  revolution. 
He  will  put  himself  back  in  imagination  until 
he  shivers  with  the  half -clad  Celt  and  groans 
with  the  oppressed  Saxon.  I,  on  the  contrary, 
am  able  to  contemplate  so  remote  a  train  of  sor- 
rows with  detachment,  perceiving  that  they 
have,  on  the  whole,  been  growing  lighter,  but 
not  admitting  that  the  self-determined  strug- 
gles of  any  individual  have  made  the  slightest 
difference.  I  see  humanity  as  an  organism, 
flowering  here  and  there,  owing  to  causes  so 
hidden  and  so  grand  that  I  call  them  divine. 
Keith  feels  the  divinity  within  him,  a  God  in 
pain,  a  God  coming  into  being  through  moral 
strife. 


HARD  ART  MORT 

I  am  safe  inland  at  last.  The  cry  of  the  sea 
rings  no  longer  in  my  ears.  The  good  has  pre- 
vailed in  my  surroundings.  Every  time  I  look 
up,  I  steady  my  heart  with  the  sight  of  Wells 
cathedral,  which  seven  hundred  years  have 
touched  only  to  make  its  countenance  more  ven- 
erable and  human.  The  little  city  nestles  close 
to  those  ample  flanks  like  a  brood  of  chickens 
beside  their  mother.  The  streets  are  neither 
busy  nor  too  quiet,  with  a  leisurely  domestic 
trade.  The  houses  doze  in  ruddy  sunshine, 
their  blinds  and  awnings  half  lowered.  A  few 
steps  would  bring  me  to  level  pastures  and 
amid  ruminating  kine.  No  precipices,  no 
white-fringed  waste  of  waters,  but  gently 
moulded  hills,  bound  the  horizon.  I  am  in  the 
centre  of  the  broad  shire  of  Somerset,  where  a 
man  need  never  think  of  lying  down  and  hold- 
ing fast  to  the  earth,  and  where  the  talk,  in  soft 
west-country  English,  is  of  herds  and  corn. 
Swans,  not  cormorants,  glide  in  the  stagnant 
moat  that  engirdles  the  bishop 's  palace.  Rooks, 
at  sunset,  fly  in  and  out  of  towers  tipped  with 
gold,  where  weary  memory  half  expected  to 

49 


50  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

hear  the  scream  of  gulls.  I  am  still  sore  from 
resisting  the  tension  of  a  physical  and  moral 
vertigo,  but  it  will  soon  be  forgotten  here. 

But  can  I  really  ever  forget?  Shall  I  not 
harken  in  my  dreams  to  the  man's  flat  voice, 
without  resonance  or  timhre,  now  listless  and 
again  animated  with  unexpected  feeling?  Shall 
I  not  be  haunted  by  his  face,  glowing  and  fad- 
ing without  apparent  cause,  like  a  dying  coal 
fanned  by  chance  draughts!  And  worse,  far 
worse  than  the  trivial  incidents  connected  with 
him, — will  Nature  herself  ever  be  the  same  to 
mef  Am  I  to  go  on  thinking  of  all  things  as 
either  broadly  good  or  sharply  evil ;  on  the  one 
hand  whatever  is  dangerous,  dark,  grim,  bleak, 
or  solitary;  on  the  other,  the  safe,  the  bright, 
the  open,  whether  in  humanity  or  in  that  which 
man  has  tamed  and  christened  for  companion- 
ship? Four  days  ago,  I  felt  free  of  the  world. 
It  was  my  world,  and  not  a  bad  one.  According 
to  my  view,  there  could  scarce  be  anything  alto- 
gether wrong  in  it.  There  was  a  *  *  soul  of  good- 
ness in  things  evil,''  and  my  optimism  was  al- 
ways busy  distilling  it  out.  A  man  needed  no 
fellow  to  keep  him  company.  He  must  be  singu- 
larly weak-hearted  not  to  venture  alone  on  cliffs 
or  desert  moors.  And  to  be  dependent  for 
moral  support  upon  the  vicinity  of  a  church  was 
to  entertain  a  contemptible,  an  amazing,  super- 


HAEDART  MORT  51 

stition.  I  rather  prided  myself  on  the  univer- 
sality of  my  sympathies.  I  was  at  home  every- 
where, and  all  men  and  beasts,  all  the  powers 
of  the  air,  all  the  forces  of  earth  and  water 
were  my  brothers — or  so  I  deemed. 

Nor  do  I  yet  feel  sure  that  I  was  mistaken.  I 
should  be  only  too  glad  to  go  back  to  my  old 
kingdom.  But  as  I  see  it  now  perforce  and 
have  seen  it  for  three  days  and  nights,  it  is 
not  a  kingdom  at  all,  but  a  house  divided  against 
itself. 

The  change  came  upon  me  suddenly.  Yet 
in  reviewing  one  by  one  the  events  of  that  fatal 
morning,  I  can  discern  one  or  two  preliminary 
stages.  It  is  quite  possible  they  have  no  sig- 
nificance, but  I  will  set  them  down  faithfully. 

I  had  been  spending  several  weeks  at  the  lit- 
tle Cornish  port  of  Boscastle.  It  possesses  al- 
most the  only  harbour  for  many  miles  along  the 
north  coast,  if  harbour  it  can  be  called,  when 
merely  to  glance  at  the  tortuous  channel,  less 
than  sixty  yards  wide,  is  to  shudder  at  the 
hardihood  of  the  fishermen  who  bring  their 
boats  through  such  a  pass.  Outside,  the  full 
fury  of  north  and  northwest  winds  lashes  the 
torn  cliffs,  where  a  cat  could  not  find  footing. 
The  entrance,  which  is  rendered  trebly  difficult 
because  it  can  be  used  only  at  high  tide,  is  a 
canyon  between  perpendicular  rocks  of  appall- 


52  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

ing  height.  At  one  point,  the  inner  mouth  of 
a  submarine  cavern  spouts  terrific  jets  of  water 
and  condensed  air  halfway  across  the  open- 
ing. A  profound  respect  for  the  fishermen  of 
Boscastle  sprang  up  in  my  mind  as  soon  as  I 
saw  their  frail  craft  rocking  behind  a  little 
jetty  in  this  so-called  harbour.  The  feeling 
deepened  when  I  came  to  know  them  and  ob- 
served the  cheerful  courage  of  their  lives.  They 
had  apparently  no  more  fear  of  the  sea  than  I 
had  of  the  air  I  breathed.  And  I  shared  their 
insensibility,  at  least  in  part,  and  as  much  as  a 
landsman  could.  Life  was  full  of  dangers,  but 
what  of  it!  There  was  a  Power  over  all,  who 
held  the  waters  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

I  never  was  happier  than  when  I  set  off  from 
Boscastle  last  Monday  morning,  to  walk  to 
Hardart  Mort,  a  promontory  dangerous  to 
shipping,  which  is  said  to  have  earned  its  evil 
name  from  the  crimes  of  wreckers  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  I  had  attended  service  on  Sun- 
day evening  in  the  Wesleyan  chapel,  with  my 
fisher  friends,  who  are  a  very  religious  folk. 
The  preacher  had  offended,  as  I  thought,  the 
very  essence  of  religion,  by  insisting  on  a  con- 
trast, not  plainly  visible  to  me,  between  life  in 
general  and  what  he  termed  The  Life. 

**A11  life,  all  real  healthy  life,  is  good!"  I 
cried  aloud,  as  I  strode  along,  that  morning. 


HARDART  MOET  53 

The  heather  and  the  roots  of  furze  and  grass 
were  sending  np,  as  incense  to  the  sun,  the  aro- 
matic perfume  peculiar  to  moorlands  in  sum- 
mer. Skylarks  were  singing  matins  in  the  blue. 
Not  a  house  nor  a  road,  not  even  a  hedge  nor 
a  tree,  was  visible.  The  shore  fell  too  close  un- 
der the  cliff  to  be  seen,  but  the  surf  made  a 
musical  undertone,  like  an  organ-swell,  and  far 
below,  to  my  right,  sparkled  the  ocean. 

**No,  it  cannot  be  true!''  I  cried  again;  **it  is 
too  exclusive.    It  would  leave  all  this  out!" 

At  nine  o  'clock,  an  hour  later,  I  was  tramping 
along  a  road,  between  farms,  with  here  and 
there  a  cottage.  A  very  little  boy,  sitting  on  a 
pile  of  stones,  with  a  market-basket  on  his  arm, 
rose  as  I  drew  near,  and  after  returning  my 
greeting,  came  trudging  behind  me.  He  was 
evidently  trying  to  keep  up  with  me,  and  as  it 
seemed  cruel  to  set  him  such  a  pace,  I  allowed 
him  to  overtake  me,  and  we  went  on  together. 
He  had  a  bright,  eager  face  and  looked  up  con- 
fidingly. **I  suppose  you  are  six  years  old,"  I 
said.  **No,  sir,  I  am  ten,"  he  answered;  and  I 
was  sorry  I  had  made  the  mistake,  for  a  second 
look  showed  that  he  was  much  undersized.  He 
kept  step  with  me  and  talked  freely.  I  was  at- 
tending but  ill,  when  I  heard  him  say,  probably 
in  reply  to  a  question  of  mine :  *  *  Two  brothers 
and  five  sisters.    One  of  the  maidens  is  a  crip- 


54  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

pie.  She  will  have  to  have  her  legs  broken  and 
put  together  again  when  she  is  twenty-one.  The 
doctor  says  so.'' 

I  note  this  encounter  because  it  brought  the 
first  shadow  into  my  day.  If  I  appear  to  mag- 
nify trifles,  it  is  because  justice  compels  me  to 
seek  in  my  train  of  thought  that  morning  every 
possible  explanation  for  what  followed. 

The  next  incident  that  affected  my  mood  was 
very  different.  The  first  had  awakened  pathos. 
This  aroused  anger.  I  stepped  into  a  public- 
house,  the  Malt  Shovel,  and  sitting  down  at  a 
table,  called  for  bread  and  cheese.  A  tall  young 
fellow,  with  a  little  bundle  on  his  back,  came  in 
while  I  was  eating,  followed  by  two  heavy- 
featured  yokels,  whom  he  treated  to  beer.  He 
was  a  quick,  talkative  man,  and  though  I  never 
caught  sight  of  his  face,  his  back  expressed  a 
shifty,  devil-may-care  disposition.  The  rustics 
who  were  drinking  his  beer  listened  in  silence, 
whether  admiringly  or  not,  I  could  not  tell,  to 
his  remarks,  which  were  extremely  cynical. 

*  *  Women  is  the  thing ! "  he  declared.  * '  They  '11 
stick  to  a  man  howsoever.  You  don't  have  got 
to  stick  to  they.  I  haven't  seen  my  wife  this 
four  months.  She's  in  Bristol.  I  don't  send 
her  no  money.  I  need  it  too  jolly  much  myself. 
But  I  know  she 's  there  all  right,  and  when  I  go 
home  she'll  be  glad  enough  if  I  take  her  a  few 


HAEDAET  MORT  55 

bob,  and  no  questions  asked.  And  she  kisses 
me,  damned  if  she  don't.  She  just  stays  there 
and  works  and  takes  care  of  the  children.  God ! 
I  don't  see  how  she  does  it." 

And  he  rattled  on  for  five  minutes,  and  so  I 
left  him,  bragging  of  his  vices. 

A  mile  and  a  half  beyond  this  tavern  I  came 
to  the  village  of  Sunmay,  and  it  might  have 
been  ten  o'clock  when  I  entered  it.  The  road 
had  brought  me  down  from  the  moor  and  back 
a  little  from  the  coast.  Now  it  bent  seaward 
again,  through  a  combe  or  wooded  valley.  At 
the  bottom  murmured  a  brook.  On  my  right 
lay  a  rich  estate.  Fallow-deer  were  grazing  in 
a  park,  at  the  end  of  which  stood  a  noble  coun- 
try-house, whose  walls  were  once  part  of  an 
abbey.  Sunmay  village  was  a  garden  of  roses 
and  honeysuckle.  The  low,  thick- walled,  cream- 
coloured  cottages  were  half  hidden  in  bloom. 
On  rising  ground  behind  them  stood  the  church. 
Its  tower  had  been  my  objective  for  many  miles, 
and  now  that  it  was  close  at  hand  I  could  not 
see  it  for  the  elms  of  the  village.  But  I  stepped 
over  the  stile  into  the  churchyard,  and  it  soared 
above  me,  nearly  two  hundred  feet  in  air,  and 
almost  unbroken  by  windows  or  tracery  from 
buttressed  foot  to  battlemented  top.  Its  uncom- 
monly dark  stone  was  damasked  a  delicate  grey- 
green  by  minute  lichens,  and  the  whole  edifice 


56  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

had  a  friendly,  though  dignified,  air.  It  was 
large  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  village,  and  I 
daresay  the  tower  was  built  to  such  a  tremen- 
dous height  that  it  might  serve  as  a  landmark 
for  mariners.  This  thought  came  to  me  as  I 
heard  the  faint  roar  of  surf  to  the  north. 

The  churchyard  was  full  of  sunshine  and  the 
hum  of  bees.  It  was  screened  from  the  village 
by  a  hawthorn  hedge,  which  met  the  lower 
branches  of  the  elms.  A  cluster  of  thick  yew 
trees  bore  witness  to  the  immemorial  length  of 
time  that  the  place  had  been  consecrated  to  its 
present  office.  The  door  in  the  church  porch 
stood  open,  and  entering  I  observed  the  famil- 
iar objects  to  which  cling  the  love  and  venera- 
tion of  centuries.  There  were  ancient  brasses 
in  the  floor  and  quaint  marble  tablets  on  the 
walls,  one  of  the  latter  provoking,  I  remember, 
a  trifling  irritation  in  me  because  it  set  forth 
that  a  certain  knight  had  fought  for  **King 
Charles  the  Martyr,  of  blessed  memory.*'  A 
richly  carved  wooden  screen,  probably  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  new  altar  cloths  of  yes- 
terday, which  were  evidently  the  result  of  pa- 
tient needlework,  brought  past  and  present  to- 
gether and  showed  the  continuity  of  human 
care.  The  whole  church  was  a  record  of  cul- 
ture, profound,  sincere,  and  unbroken  from 
earliest  times.    Except  for  the  contentious  ref- 


HAEDAET  MOET  57 

erence  to  King  Charles,  everything  suggested 
peace. 

I  came  out  through  the  north  side,  the  side 
towards  the  sea,  and  almost  fell  into  an  open 
grave,  which  the  sexton  had  just  finished  dig- 
ging. He  talked  with  me  as  he  wiped  his  brow 
and  straightened  his  back.  **A  child  is  to  be 
buried  here  this  afternoon, '*  he  said.  When  I 
told  him  I  was  going  to  Hardart  Mort,  he  said  it 
was  less  than  half  a  mile  off  and  advised  me  to 
take  a  short  cut  over  the  moor.  That  side  of 
the  churchyard  presented  a  strange  contrast  to 
the  side  near  the  village.  Here  were  no  trees, 
and  the  mighty  tower  was  the  only  object  more 
than  three  feet  high  that  had  successfully 
braved  the  winter  winds.  A  low  stone  wall 
bounded  the  plot  of  sacred  ground. 

Stepping  across,  I  was  on  the  wild  heath, 
and  at  once  the  boom  of  breakers  fell  heavy  on 
my  sense.  Five  hundred  paces  brought  me  to  a 
sharp  declivity.  The  path  zigzagged  down  to 
the  back  of  a  group  of  stone  buildings  and  a 
ruined  quay  at  the  foot  of  the  promontory  on 
which  I  stood.  This  was  the  only  approach  to 
the  sea,  which  was  overhung  everywhere  else 
with  black  cliffs.  The  tide  was  low,  but  had  be- 
gun to  come  in.  Jagged  reefs,  which  would  be 
covered  in  two  hours,  broke  the  Atlantic  rollers 
about  a  hundred  yards  out.    They  crunched  the 


58  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

water  like  a  jaw  of  ugly  teeth,  bnt  owing  to  the 
state  of  the  tide  there  was  little  foam.  The 
demon  was  not  hungry. 

I  went  down  the  path.  I  had  heard  there  was 
an  inn  here,  but  nothing  looked  more  unlikely, 
and  I  doubted  if  it  were  true,  till  I  saw  a  sign 
swinging  at  the  corner  of  the  row  of  buildings. 
My  misgivings  returned  as  I  walked  along  their 
front,  between  which  and  the  sea,  except  at  the 
farther  end,  ran  a  parallel  row  of  stone  sheds. 
AH  doors  and  windows  were  shut. 

I  went  along  the  passage  and  knocked  at 
every  door.  There  was  no  response,  and  not  a 
creature  was  visible.  Turning  at  the  end,  I 
was  walking  back,  when  I  felt  conscious  of  be- 
ing watched,  and  looking  round  saw  a  face  at 
an  upper  window.  The  man  gazed  at  me  a  mo- 
ment; then,  raising  the  sash,  asked,  in  a  dull 
tone: 

**What  do  you  want?'' 

'*Is  this  an  innT'  I  questioned. 

'^I  will  come  down,"  he  replied,  and  disap- 
peared. 

He  must  have  thought  better  of  his  rudeness 
in  the  interval,  for  when  he  let  me  in  he  moved 
and  spoke  briskly,  and  asked  me,  with  an  ap- 
proach to  expectancy,  what  I  would  have.  I 
ordered  a  bottle  of  beer  and  a  dozen  biscuits, 
which  he  set  before  me  on  a  table.    The  room 


HAEDART  MORT  59 

was  bare  and  cold.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
rather  less  than  the  usual  number  of  time- 
tables, auction-bills,  and  steamship  advertise- 
ments. Pieces  of  harness  littered  the  floor,  and 
there  were  only  two  chairs.  Yet  carelessness, 
not  poverty,  appeared  to  be  the  cause  of  this 
want  of  comfort,  for  the  sideboard  was  encum- 
bered with  piles  of  delicate  china,  several 
costly  silver  articles,  a  French  clock,  handsome 
decanters  and  two  or  three  folded  tablecloths 
of  fine  linen. 

As  I  sat  and  munched  my  biscuits,  I  was 
aware  that  the  man  was  standing  behind  the 
bar  watching  me.  I  was  glad  he  had  stayed, 
for  I  wished  to  ask  questions.  But  he  got 
ahead  of  me  there  and  broke  silence  at  once : 

**You're  a  Devonshire  man.'* 

'*No,''  I  replied;  **try  again." 

I  have  never  been  met  by  so  incredulous  a 
stare  as  greeted  my  simple  answer.  It  was 
quite  insulting;  not  insolent  exactly,  but  cun- 
ning, as  if  implying  that  I  was  caught  in  a  lie 
and  must  know  it. 

*^You  say  you  are  not  a  Devonshire  man?" 

**No,  I  am  not." 

**You  are  not  from  these  parts." 

His  sullen  opposition  roused  a  spirit  of  re- 
sistance in  me.    I  thought  I  knew  my  man  and 


60  DREAMS  AND  MEMOEIES 

would  deal  with  him  after  his  kind.    So  I  an- 
swered sharply: 

**Are  there  no  other  places  than  Devonshire 
and  these  parts  I  Now,  I  can  tell  by  your  speech 
you  are  not  from  Devon  nor  yet  Cornish.'' 

*  ^  So  f  he  said  slowly,  like  a  German,  and  the 
observant  eyes  were  filled  with  interest.  He 
never  took  them  from  me,  but  until  now  his  look 
was  one  of  watchfulness  and  not  curiosity. 

*  *  I  'd  like  you  to  tell  me  where  I  come  from, ' ' 
he  admitted. 

I  felt  I  had  a  grip  on  him,  and  waiting  some 
time  I  said  slowly :  *  *  I  think  you  are  a  Welsh- 
man. ' ' 

** Thank  you  for  the  Welshman!"  he  ejacu- 
lated, looking  annoyed.  **No,  I  am  not  a  Welsh- 
man. ' ' 

I  ate  another  biscuit.  He  stared  at  me  still. 
I  was  wondering  how  long  I  could  stand  it,  and 
hoping  to  parry  rather  than  thrust,  when  he 
said,  with  a  flush  of  excitement : 

*  ^  I  didn  't  ask  to  come  into  this  world.  I  don 't 
know  what  I  am.  Maybe,  now,  I'm  Scotch. 
The  Scotch  are  a  shrewd  people.  But  what  are 
you,  if  you  say  you  are  not  a  Devon  man!" 

One  would  have  supposed,  from  his  intense 
interest,  that  it  was  a  matter  of  great  conse- 
quence. I  can  fancy  a  savage  thus  interrogat- 
ing a  stranger  to  his  tribe,  but  civilized  people 


HARDAET  MOET  61 

show  less  concern  about  a  man's  origin.  All 
this  time  his  basilisk  eyes  never  turned  aside. 
I  felt  a  deep  repugnance  to  their  owner,  temp- 
ered a  little  with  triumph  at  having  drawn  his 
fire. 

**I  am  an  American,''  I  said. 

**An  American.  So!  You  want  Canada, 
don't  you?" 

** That's  absurd,"  I  answered.  ** We've  got 
enough  to  look  after.  We  have  no  ambitions  in 
that  direction. ' ' 

He  watched  me  like  a  fencer,  looking  deep  in- 
to my  eyes,  distrusting  me,  and  ready  to  smile 
assent  if  I  betrayed  the  smallest  trace  of  cyni- 
cism. 

**What  brings  you  to  England?" 

**We  want  to  see  the  world.  There  is  much 
to  learn  in  England.  It's  the  home  country, 
and  we  like  it." 

**You  like  England,"  he  said  very  slowly,  as 
if  this  was  a  degree  of  generosity  beyond  his 
comprehension.  And  then,  brightening,  he 
went  on  keenly:  **0h,  yes,  you  come  here  to 
enjoy  the  protection  of  our  laws  and  police, 
and  we  pay  the  taxes." 

**Yes,  but  if  you  came  to  America  you  would 
be  protected  by  our  laws  and  police,  and  we  pay 
taxes  too,  and  heavy  ones,  with  our  tariff. ' ' 

**No,  a  man's  life  isn't  safe  in  your  country. 


62  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

You  can't  make  me  believe  it  is.  But  aren't 
you  for  the  tariff  T' 

I  told  him  I  was  a  free-trader,  and  we  went 
off  into  politics.  When  I  mentioned  Mr.  As- 
quith,  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  Mr.  John  Burns,  Mr. 
Keir  Hardie  and  Mr.  Balfour,  he  flashed  up 
again  in  his  strange,  fascinating  way,  and  said : 

**I  know  them  all, — all  those  you  name.  I 
am  acquainted  with  them." 

My  impudence  being  less  than  his,  I  took 
pains  to  conceal  my  incredulity,  and  as  I  was 
now  opening  the  bottle,  I  asked  him  to  bring  a 
second  one  and  another  glass  and  drink  with 
me. 

* '  Why  should  I  do  that  ? ' '  he  queried.  ' '  Why 
do  you  ask  me  1  \ ' 

/* Because  it  would  please  me,''  I  answered. 
**I  enjoy  your  society,  and  wish  to  be  polite." 

**You  do  me  great  honour,  and  I  thank  you," 
he  said,  but  declined  my  invitation.  I  could  see 
that  he  was  flattered  every  time  I  showed  re- 
spect for  his  intelligence.  And  it  seemed  to  me 
he  was  capable  of  unusual  acuteness,  though 
narrow-minded,  ill-informed,  and  altogether 
lacking  in  sympathy.  As  I  rose  to  go,  he  fol- 
lowed me  to  the  door,  and  getting  in  my  way, 
asked  in  a  low  voice : 

**When  you  came  into  this  house  did  you 
know  you  were  going  to  talk  politics?" 


HAEDAET  MORT  63 

His  attitude  was  threatening,  though  the 
question  was  laughably  harmless;  so  I  bought 
my  way  out  with  another  compliment,  which 
caused  him  to  flush  with  pleasure  and  step 
aside : 

**No,  I  couldn't  be  sure,  of  course,  that  I 
should  find  anyone  here  who  could  converse  so 
intelligently  on  that  subject/' 

When  I  was  once  more  in  the  sunshine,  I  felt 
that  I  had  escaped  a  wary  foe.  He  might  be 
mad  from  solitude  or  he  might  be  a  criminal; 
his  demeanour  had  been  that  of  a  man  with  a 
trap  into  which  an  unexpected  victim  had 
stepped.  In  all  our  interview  he  had  watched 
me,  and  something  had  bidden  me  be  on  my 
guard.  But  I  had  feared  no  physical  harm.  It 
was  my  soul  he  watched,  and  not  my  body.  I 
climbed  swiftly  to  the  top  of  the  downs,  where 
I  sat  a  long  time  contemplating  the  scene,  whose 
sombreness  even  the  brilliant  sunshine  could 
not  relieve.  The  abject  row  of  bare  masonry, 
with  shuttered  windows ;  the  ruined  quay,  which 
at  its  best  could  have  been  only  a  snare  to  any 
sailing  craft ;  the  jaws  of  rock,  where  the  foam 
was  now  dashing  in  agony;  the  grim  cliffs  to 
the  right  and  left; — here  was  no  escape  from 
the  sense  of  evil  which  oppressed  me.  In  the 
wild  sea  was  naught  but  desolation  and  danger. 


64  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

irresistible  physical  force  without  pity,  to  which 
all  our  human  virtues  would  plead  in  vain. 

**A  man  might  be  the  crown  and  flower  of  his 
kind,''  I  thought;  **his  merits  might  be  su- 
preme ;  the  hope  of  the  world  might  hang  upon 
his  life ;  and  yet  if  he  fell  from  yonder  cliff  or 
were  upset  in  yon  cauldron  of  waters,  he  would 
be  lost.  Things  have  no  soul.  And  in  that  grey 
stack  of  houses  moves  an  intelligence  equally 
fatal  and  equally  devoid  of  soul." 

But  here  I  checked  myself  for  very  shame. 
This  was  an  inference  quite  unwarranted  by 
facts.  A  mere  nervous  impression  was  tempt- 
ing me  into  an  absurd  and  unjust  thought.  *  *  No 
man, ' '  I  reflected,  *  *  is  wholly  bad,  and  in  regard 
to  this  poor  lonely  fellow  I  have  no  reason  to 
think  him  bad  at  all.  It  was  only  my  whim  and 
his  unfortunate  manner.'' 

It  would  be  a  mistake,  I  thought,  to  go  away 
while  the  sunshine  lasted.  The  prospect,  if 
awful,  was  worth  coming  far  to  behold.  I  sat 
in  the  warm  grass  for  an  hour  or  so  and  took 
a  short  sleep.  When  I  awoke,  it  was  past  one 
o'clock  and  the  tide,  now  nearly  full,  was  rag- 
ing like  a  line  of  battle.  The  reefs  were  hidden 
and  the  huge  billows  roUed  over  them  unbroken, 
to  crash  with  thunder  against  the  face  of  the 
cliff.  I  was  hungry  and  also  a  little  remorseful. 
'  *  The  poor  chap  stays  there  all  the  year  round. 


HARD  ART  MORT  65 

His  winters  must  be  dreadful.  It  will  be  only 
fair  to  him  and  to  myself  if  I  go  back  to  try  to 
look  at  him  more  charitably.  And  after  all,  the 
place  is  an  inn,  and  I'm  hungry.  I'll  go  down 
and  have  dinner  there.  It  may  be  he  provides 
meals,  though  I  saw  no  women  nor  any  other 
creature  but  him. ' ' 

So  I  went  back.  The  passage  between  the  inn 
and  the  sheds  was  drenched  with  spray  and 
arched  above  with  a  rainbow.  There  was  not 
exactly  a  roaring  all  about,  but  rather  a  suc- 
cession of  crashes.  The  wind  had  freshened  to 
a  gale  and  screamed  over  the  comb  of  the  stable 
roof.  Straws  and  pebbles  eddied  across  the 
ground,  and  a  few  tufts  of  grass  were  straining 
at  their  roots  in  the  less  exposed  crannies.  The 
place  throbbed  with  light  and  sound,  and  even, 
so  I  fancied,  with  motion.  Unable  to  make  my- 
self heard  by  knocking,  I  entered  the  room 
where  I  had  been  previously  admitted.  It  was 
empty,  but  the  door  into  the  next  apartment  on 
the  right  was  half  open.  From  that  end  of  the 
house  there  was  a  view  of  the  rocks  and  the  sea, 
beyond  the  row  of  stables.  I  looked  into  the 
room.  My  host  was  standing  at  the  window 
there,  holding  a  telescope  to  his  eye  and  leaning 
forward  intently. 

**Come  in  farther!''  he  screamed,  without 
turning  towards  me.    *  *  Come  on  to  your  doom ! 


66  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Here  is  plain  sailing,  a  safe  harbour,  a  quiet 
resting-place,  and  a  warm  fire!  Come  with 
wind  and  tide.  Let  her  run  in  behind  the  quay. 
I'll  show  ye  a  flare." 

I  doubt  if  he  would  have  seen  me,  even  had  he 
turned  fully  round,  but  his  face  was  still  to- 
wards the  sea.  There  had  been  no  sail  in  sight 
when  I  came  down  the  hill,  and  there  could  be 
none  now. 

*'A  flare,  a  flare!''  he  shrieked;  **a  flare  to 
show  ye  the  way — to  death!"  and  his  voice 
dropped  at  the  end.  From  a  canister  on  the 
deep  window-ledge,  he  drew  forth  a  Roman 
candle.  A  lamp  was  burning  in  a  bracket  beside 
him,  in  full  sunlight.  Over  its  flame  he  held  the 
end  of  the  torch.  In  an  instant  the  room  was 
ablaze  with  red  fire  and  filling  with  smoke 
driven  back  by  the  wind.  Choking  and  blinded, 
I  turned  and  ran,  but  not  before  I  caught  sight 
of  his  face  in  the  glare.  I  fled  to  Sunmay 
churchyard.  They  were  burying  the  child,  and 
I  stood  trembling  among  the  mourners,  while 
my  heart  clung  to  the  comfortable  words, 
** Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord." 


WITH  EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE 

There  was  a  faint  flush  in  the  sky  and  an  un- 
real look  about  ordinary  objects,  which  pro- 
claimed the  approach  of  dawn.  We  sat,  two 
boys  of  twelve,  on  a  grey  ridge  of  limestone 
beside  the  Carlisle-Chambersburg  turnpike,  our 
faces  turned  uneasily  toward  the  east  and  our 
toes  poking  up  the  dew-dampened  dust.  We 
had  come  several  miles  from  home,  and  it  still 
lacked  many  minutes  to  four  in  the  morning. 
The  road  ahead  of  us  stretched  white  and  silent 
up  a  long  hill,  over  whose  shoulder  it  disap- 
peared. We  had  not  had  the  stomach  to  attack 
the  ascent,  for  a  feverish  and  sleepless  night 
had  preceded  our  excursion,  and  we  had  scorned 
the  thought  of  food.  Under  these  circum- 
stances daybreak  proved  a  singularly  disheart- 
ening affair.  I  remember  how  disgustingly 
commonplace  all  objects  turned  when  at  this 
point  fatigue  had  compelled  us  to  rest  and  con- 
sider the  situation. 

**Do  you  think  they're  coming T'  I  asked. 

** Let's  sit  here  and  wait,"  answered  my 
cousin  Neil. 

We  must  both  have  dropped  asleep  for  an  in- 
67 


68  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

stant,  or  perhaps  as  much  as  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  for  the  next  thing  I  remember  was  a  sight 
that  brought  us  both  to  our  feet.  At  the  meet- 
ing-point of  road  and  sky,  loomed  a  monstrous 
moving  shape  surrounded  with  a  halo — an  ele- 
phant poised  for  a  breath  of  time  on  a  heaven- 
kissing  hill,  with  the  rising  sun  for  a  back- 
ground ! 

We  did  not  rush  forward  to  greet  the  longed- 
for  subject  of  our  vigils.  We  could  only  stand 
with  thumping  hearts  and  look.  Romeo  moved 
majestically  down  the  slope,  swinging  his  trunk 
from  side  to  side,  and  Little  Nannie,  ponderous 
child,  ambled  in  her  father 's  wake.  The  rest  of 
the  show  followed: — gilt  animal  cages;  long 
trucks  with  canvas  and  tent-poles;  close-shut- 
tered sleeping-vans,  from  which  a  yawn  was 
jolted  out,  and  a  sleepy  imprecation;  spotted 
ponies  browsing  here  and  there  at  the  roadside, 
then  cantering  forward  to  their  places ;  a  muf- 
fled object  which  could  be  nothing  less  than  the 
gorgeous  band- waggon ; — ^we  saw  the  whole  glo- 
rious company  descend  from  unutterable 
heights  of  splendour  to  our  humble  station. 
Golden  clouds  of  dust  escorted  them.  The 
silvery  mists  of  morning  lay  furled  along  the 
edge  of  the  woods  to  make  way  for  them,  and 
the  dewy  grass  twinkled  at  their  approach. 
What  wonder  then  if  two  boys,  whose  expecta- 


ROMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE        69 

tions  had  been  nourished  for  a  month  on  circus 
posters,  were  chained  fast  with  awe.  From  the 
day  when  a  piratical-looking  man  drove  a  pair 
of  white-coated,  pink-faced  horses  into  Ship- 
pensburg  and  set  that  quiet  old  town  ablaze 
with  magnificent  pictures  of  ladies  jumping 
through  hoops,  perilous  feats  on  the  flying 
trapeze,  complicated  tumbling,  and  above  all, 
the  great  elephant  Romeo  forming  a  pyramid 
with  his  daughter.  Little  Nannie,  on  his  back, 
Forepaugh  and  Robinson  had  robbed  us  of  our 
sleep.  After  the  light-hearted  manner  of  our 
species  when  they  snuff  a  circus  afar,  we  began 
immediately  to  ** practise  tricks,''  and  I  still 
think,  as  I  look  back,  that  we  were  pretty  fair 
gymnasts,  though  not  of  course  real  contortion- 
ists. 

Several  considerations  led  us  to  a  belief  that 
we  ought  to  see  that  show  for  nothing.  Our 
careful  preparation  for  it,  both  physical  and 
mental,  was  one  reason;  another,  the  fact  that 
the  tent  was  to  be  pitched  in  my  grandfather's 
pasture-lot.  Moreover,  we  meant  to  be  useful, 
holding  horses  and  carrying  water. 

So  when  Romeo  and  Little  Nannie  led  their 
caravan  past  us  in  the  dawn,  which  had  ceased 
to  be  flat  and  unromantic,  we  stared  at  every 
detail  with  burning  eyes,  as  upon  our  proper 
prey.     After  the  main  procession  there  came 


70  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

half  a  dozen  side-shows,  and  finally  a  buggy  in 
which  lolled  two  gentlemen  with  their  hats 
pulled  down  over  their  eyes, — Messrs.  Fore- 
paugh  and  Robinson  themselves,  we  surmised, 
though  we  felt  that  had  we  owned  that  circus 
we  should  have  allowed  no  thought  of  economy 
to  prevent  our  riding  in  the  band- waggon. 

We  were  about  to  fall  in  behind,  and  see  our 
circus  safely  into  town,  when  down  the  hill  came 
a  jaded  horse  drawing  a  two-seated  carriage 
the  top  of  which  was  covered  with  kettles  and 
pans,  and  clothes  drying  in  the  wind.  The 
driver  was  a  man  somewhat  past  middle  age, 
who  sat  in  a  posture  of  deep  dejection,  with  his 
elbows  resting  on  his  knees  and  his  eyes  half- 
closed.  A  girl  of  about  our  own  age  was  sit- 
ting beside  him  asleep.  An  oilcloth  curtain  be- 
hind the  front  seat  screened  from  view  the  in- 
terior of  the  carriage.  We  were  about  to  let 
this  melancholy  vehicle  pass,  when  the  man, 
perceiving  us,  raised  his  head,  stopped  his 
horse,  and  called  out, 

**How  far  is  it  to  this  blamed  Shippens- 
burg?^' 

We  told  him,  to  the  best  of  our  knowledge. 

*'Have  they  got  a  cheap  hotel  there  f  was 
his  next  question. 

We  mentioned  the  Black  Bear  and  the 
Branch  House. 


ROMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       71 

**Town  with  several  hotels,  eh?"  he  asked 
with  quickened  interest.  ^*  Perhaps  youVe  got 
a  hospital  then?" 

**No,"  we  answered,  we  did  not  know  of  any 
hospital. 

*' Maybe  you've  got  a  poor-house  then,  or 
some  place  where  a  poor  man  may  take  his 
crippled  son?"  he  continued,  in  a  sharper  tone. 

**No,"  we  replied,  there  was  no  poor-house. 

**What,  in  heaven's  name,  then,"  he  burst 
forth  with  sudden  fury,  **is  a  poor  beaten  dog 
like  me  to  go  to  ?  What  will  become  of  my  boy, 
of  my  boy  and  girl?" 

He  was  looking  over  our  heads  now,  and  ad- 
dressing, not  us,  but  some  invisible  adversary. 
His  vehemence  woke  the  girl.  **You  want  to 
turn  us  off,"  he  cried,  shaking  his  fist  at  the 
vanishing  circus;  *'you  will  kick  me  out,  as  if 
I  hadn't  helped  to  set  you  up  in  the  first  place. 
I  was  as  rich  as  you,  five  years  ago.  I  was  the 
best  man  of  the  three.  I  was  the  making  of 
you  both,  and  you  are  for  shutting  us  out  this 
day,  because  my  poor  boy  has  hurt  his  back; 
and  the  Twining  Twins  will  be  done  for ! ' ' 

His  speech,  which  began  with  a  white  rage, 
singular  to  behold  in  one  so  lately  nodding  in 
slumber,  had  declined  into  a  weary,  half-hu- 
mourous whine,  and  he  stopped  as  if  ashamed 
of  his  outburst.    The  girl,  who  looked  brave  in 


72  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

spite  of  her  tears,  laid  her  hand  on  her  father 's 
arm  to  quiet  him.  He  turned  toward  us  with 
an  attempt  to  smile,  and  said  more  cheerfully : 

**It's  pretty  hard  to  have  one  of  the  Twins 
knocked  out  and  know  we'll  be  dropped  if  he 
can't  enter  the  ring  by  three  o'clock  this  after- 
noon, which  he  can  no  more  do  with  a  strained 
back,  than  Simple  Simon  there,"  pointing  to 
his  dejected  yellow  horse,  **can  beat  Dexter." 

Dexter  was  the  great  trotting  horse  in  our 
boyhood,  whose  name  and  fame  were  in  every- 
body's mouth. 

Neil  was  a  bold  lad.  He  made  out  to  address 
the  circus  man  and  asked,  **Is  he  in  there!" 

**Yes,  poor  boy,  and  what  I  said  about  a  hotel 
was  all  guff,  for  we  can't  afford  to  put  up  at 
your  Hotel  Continental  nor  your  Metropolitan 
Grand,  but  must  either  enter  the  ring  or  the 
almshouse. ' ' 

The  girl  nodded  confirmation  and  shut  her 
big  black  eyes.  Then  she  opened  them  again 
and  looked  at  Neil  and  me.  I  think  it  was  this 
deep  sorrowful  gaze  that  settled  the  question 
for  us  both.    The  sequel  is  the  rest  of  my  story. 

Simple  Simon  was  encouraged  to  go  on,  and 
we  walked  beside  the  front  wheels,  talking,  with 
lumps  in  our  throats,  to  these  persons  whom,  in 
spite  of  their  misery,  we  acknowledged  as  su- 
perior beings.     We  learned   that   the   man's 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       73 

name  was  Donovan,  and  that  the  Twining 
Twins,  his  children,  were  the  most  wonderful 
tumblers  in  the  profession,  having  tumbled  be- 
fore the  crowned  heads  of  Europe,  Asia,  and 
Africa,  many  of  whom,  the  fond  parent  re- 
marked, had  in  their  turn  tumbled  in  the  dust. 
In  all  this  conversation  Mr.  Donovan  never 
again  attained  the  pitch  of  energy  and  indigna- 
tion to  which  his  spirits  had  originally  flared. 
He  seemed  a  mild,  easy-mannered  fellow,  with 
a  streak  of  humour,  and,  as  I  afterwards  found, 
was  supported  through  life  by  a  philosophy  of 
consistent  optimism. 

Presently  a  boy's  voice  was  heard  from  the 
back  seat,  ** Cicely,  I  want  to  be  turned"; 
whereupon  Donovan  let  Simple  Simon  put 
down  his  head  to  eat  grass,  they  rolled  up  the 
curtain,  and  the  girl  wheeled  round  to  help  her 
brother. 

We  were  to  see  a  boy  who  belonged  to  a 
circus,  a  boy  of  our  own  age,  who  habitually 
and  legitimately  practised  the  most  fascinating 
art,  a  member  of  the  most  excellent  profession, 
one  to  whom  the  magic  ''ring'*  was  as  familiar 
as  our  old  barn-floor  to  us !  It  was  almost  too 
much  for  Neil's  nerves.  I  could  see  his  lips 
tighten  and  his  eyelids  quiver. 

''Charles,  you  must  not  sit  up,"  cried  Cicely. 

The  boy  had  risen  painfully  from  a  heap  of 


74  DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

blankets  and  was  steadying  himself  with  both 
hands  on  the  framework  of  the  carriage. 

**I  will  sit  up,''  he  declared;  **and  I'm  going 
to  act  this  afternoon.  It's  either  that  or  die, 
Cicely." 

The  girl  looked  as  if  she  thought  so  too,  but 
tried,  nevertheless,  to  cheer  her  brother  by 
hopeful  predictions:  the  managers  would  let 
them  off  for  a  few  days  until  he  should  be  bet- 
ter— a  suggestion  which  it  was  plain  to  see  they 
all  took  as  merely  humourous ;  she  might  go  in- 
to the  ring  alone  and  perform  solo  parts — a 
proposition  which  aroused  the  boy's  scorn.  The 
father,  who  had  got  down  and  was  tickling  Sim- 
ple Simon's  nose  with  a  straw,  turned  to  us 
with  good-natured  sarcasm  and  said : 

''If  either  of  these  young  gentlemen  had  re- 
ceived half  as  good  an  education  as  you, 
Charles,  he  might  do  the  turn  for  you,  my  boy, 
but  it's  plain  to  see  they  have  no  joints." 

We  were  greatly  humbled  by  this  remark, 
which  must  be  true,  coming  from  so  high  an 
authority;  but  as  the  girl  was  now  facing  en- 
tirely towards  her  brother,  whom  she  sought  to 
soothe  and  make  comfortable  in  his  blankets, 
while  we  were  near  the  horse 's  head,  I  ventured 
to  say,  very  quickly:    ''We  can  do  some  acts." 

"What  now,  in  heaven's  name?"  asked  the 
man,  with  deepened  sarcasm.    I  blushed  hot  and 


ROMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       75 

was  dumb.  Neil  spoke  up:  **0h,  we  don't 
know  the  names,  but  we  can  do  some  double 
tumbling. ' ' 

'*Fall  to  now,  me  lads !''  cried  Donovan,  drop- 
ping the  straw,  and  laughing  heartily.  **Give 
us  a  rehearsal !  Cicely,  prop  Charles  up  and 
let  the  poor  boy  see  the  fun.  It  may  cure  his 
back !  These  little  swells  are  going  to  do  double 
tumbling!  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  are  now 
about  to  behold  the  crowning  feature  of  the 
performance.  These  pretty  boys  will  now  per- 
FORM !  Simple  Simon,  do  not  crowd  against  the 
ropes ;  you  can  see  from  where  you  are,  sir ! ' ' 

This  cruel  speech  was  made  with  such  gayety 
that  we  scarcely  felt  its  sting.  What  unutter- 
able vanity  possessed  us?  We  felt  ashamed  to 
the  roots  of  our  hair,  but  ** Fighting  Blood!'' 
whispered  Neil  in  my  ear,  and  *  *  True  Blue ! "  I 
echoed  back,  and  off  went  our  coats.  Swells 
though  we  were  to  Mr.  Donovan,  we  were  bare- 
foot country  boys,  and  our  costume  was  not 
long  a-making.  I  have  never  stripped  for  a 
fight  with  worse  trembling  of  the  knees,  nor 
yet,  after  all,  with  a  steadier  heart.  Was  it 
merely  to  prove  myself  no  duffer  and  carry  out 
our  boast,  or  was  I  nerved  to  this  barefaced 
conduct  by  a  more  secret  hope!  I  felt  the  deep 
soft  blackness  of  those  eyes  behind  me.  I  dared 
not  look  around.    Neil,  I  made  sure,  was  wor- 


76  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

ried  by  the  thought  of  Charles  sitting  up  in  his 
blankets  to  criticise  our  certain  failure;  but  to 
me  neither  Charles  nor  his  father  counted  more 
than  Simple  Simon. 

We  went  through  our  poor  little  repertory, 
and  I  am  bound  to  say,  outdid  all  our  previous 
efforts,  in  spite  of  the  gnawings  of  hunger  and 
the  shakiness  of  limbs  unaccustomed  to  early 
rising.  But  to  the  born  artist  an  audience  is 
always  inspiring,  and  many  a  born  artist,  too, 
has  done  good  work  on  an  empty  stomach  and 
with  unstrung  nerves. 

To  believe  Donovan,  however,  we  performed 
very  badly.  The  boy  was  non-committal.  But 
Cicely  did  us  the  honour  of  coming  over  to  the 
patch  of  turf  where  we  were,  and  aiding  us  with 
some  advice.  She  even  went  through  one  or  two 
figures  with  us. 

Few  persons  were  awake  when  we  reached 
town,  except  boys.  We  led  our  friends  by  a  side 
street  directly  to  the  circus-field,  where  the 
poles  were  being  hoisted  and  tent-pegs  being 
driven  home.  Fires  had  been  lighted  for  break- 
fast ;  the  animal  waggons  had  been  drawn  up  in 
a  circle,  but  not  yet  opened ;  men  and  boys  were 
leading  the  horses  off  to  an  adjoining  lot,  and 
the  side-show  people  had  most  of  their  little 
booths  set  up.  But,  as  Donovan  pointed  out, 
with  a  sigh,  all  the  other  ** artists"  had  retired 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       77 

to  the  best  hotel  in  town,  for  breakfast,  drinks, 
and  more  sleep. 

Neil  drew  me  aside  and  said:  ** Let's  take 
them  to  your  barn,  where  we  can  get  things  to 
them  easily.'' 

I  demurred,  but  would  not  state  my  reason. 
I  was  only  too  much  afraid  he  would  see  it  for 
himself.  For  it  was  evident  to  me  that  my 
family  must  not  be  allowed  to  connect  me  in 
any  way  with  the  Donovans,  in  view  of  certain 
plans  that  were  forming  in  my  head.  So  we 
helped  Mr.  Donovan  to  some  old  rails  for  his 
fire,  and  I  brought  half  a  ham,  a  loaf  of  bread, 
and  sundry  other  provisions  from  the  house. 
We  had  expected  to  honour  ourselves  by  carry- 
ing water  for  the  wild  animals  and  to  gain  fa- 
vour in  various  other  ways  with  the  showmen, 
but  a  higher  mission  had  revealed  itself,  to  me 
at  least, — because  I  cannot  speak  for  Neil, — 
and  the  Donovans  received  all  our  attentions. 

Three  huge  canvas  tents  now  loomed  in  the 
middle  of  our  familiar  pasture,  and  three  round 
areas  beneath  them  had  become  consecrated  and 
mysterious  ground.  One  tent  held  the  menag- 
erie, which  was  all  of  the  show  that  the  children 
of  ministers  and  church  elders  might  legiti- 
mately expect  to  behold.  Another  covered  the 
RING.  The  third,  which  was  smaller,  was  an 
edifice  more  hallowed  still,  for  it  constituted  the 


78  BREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

dressing-room,  the  arcanum  of  wonders,  the 
nursery  of  art. 

The  morning  passed  miserably.  The  Dono- 
vans slept  on  the  ground  under  their  carriage ; 
the  show  lost  interest  in  our  eyes,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  we  went  home  and  took  break- 
fast with  our  families  at  eight  o  ^clock  and  slept 
afterwards  till  noon.  No  word  of  our  hopes, 
fears,  or  plans  passed  between  Neil  and  me.  A 
coldness  lay  upon  our  intercourse,  and  only 
great  confidence  in  each  other  ^s  fidelity,  tested 
in  many  a  scrape  at  school  and  many  a  battle 
with  boys  from  the  other  end  of  town,  permitted 
us  to  sleep  that  morning  in  different  houses.  I 
knew  he  would  not  go  back  to  the  circus-lot 
alone,  and  I  knew  he  trusted  me  to  wait  for  him. 

The  menagerie  was  open  at  one  o'clock  and 
the  circus  began  at  two.  All  Shippensburg  and 
the  adjacent  parts  of  our  valley,  and  the  pine- 
covered  foothills  of  the  South  Mountain  had 
sent  their  population  into  our  green  pasture- 
lot  and  the  narrow  lane  that  led  to  it.  Two  boys 
only  were  not  in  that  crowd.  For  Neil  and  I, 
with  our  new  friends,  were  sitting  around  a 
gymnasium  mat  in  the  dressing-tent.  Charles 
was  reclining  on  a  pile  of  blankets,  looking  very 
black  and  disapproving.  Cicely,  arrayed  in 
tights,  was  whispering  to  him  earnestly,  with 
frequent  glances  in  our  direction.    Donovan  had 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE        79 

just  come  from  having  an  interview  with  the 
owners.  His  hands  shook  and  his  face  was 
white  with  anger. 

**They  say  they  will  let  you  off  for  this  af- 
ternoon, but  you  must  act  to-night  or  give  it 
up  altogether.'' 

This  time  he  did  not  curse  and  storm  as  he 
had  done  in  the  morning,  nor  refer  to  his  for- 
mer prominence  in  the  affairs  of  the  firm  and 
his  conviction  that  they  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
him  because  they  owed  him  money.  It  was  a 
case  of  heart-break,  and  words  were  superflu- 
ous. 

Cicely  ran  forward  to  meet  him,  and  took  his 
hand.  *  *  Father,  do  not  say  they  cannot.  These 
boys  can  act.  Charles  himself  says  they  can. 
And  one  of  them  will  go  with  us  and  take 
Charles 's  place  for  a  few  days,  till  he  is  better. 
They  will  practise  with  me  now  in  this  quiet 
corner,  during  the  performance,  and  by  night 
we  shall  have  a  few  acts  ready. ' ' 

Donovan  jumped  at  the  suggestion.  His  face 
flushed.  Tears  rose  in  his  eyes  and  overflowed. 
He  seized  his  daughter's  hand,  and  kissed  her, 
and  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  Then,  in  his  im- 
pulsive Irish  way,  he  turned  to  us  and  gave  us 
each  a  hand,  and  exclaimed:  **God  bless  you, 
boys,  you  have  given  life  to  these  poor  children. 
We  shall  bless  your  generous  hearts.    But  your 


80  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

parents ! ' '  he  cried,  taking  a  sudden  step  back- 
ward. *  *  They  will  seek  you,  they  will  find  you, 
and  the  name  of  Donovan  will  be  disgraced. 
And  they  will  suffer,  good  souls,  at  the  loss, 
temporary  though  it  may  be,  of  two  such  noble 
lads.'*  And  he  stood  off  and  surveyed  us  ad- 
miringly. **But  no,''  he  resumed  in  his  bland 
manner,  **I  cannot  refuse  your  unselfish  offer. 
I  cannot  throw  a  wet  blanket  upon  your  ardent 
aspirations  to  relieve  the  poor  and  needy.  I 
will  run  the  risk.  Donovan  accepts  the  respon- 
sibility. And  the  alarm  of  your  noble  kinsfolk 
will  be  but  for  a  day,  but  for  a  day — or  maybe 
three  or  four,''  he  added,  with  a  wink. 

Charles  hung  his  head  and  looked  ashamed, 
but  gave  no  other  sign  of  dissent.  As  for  Ci- 
cely, she  was  radiant.  Her  breath  came  and 
went  quickly,  the  blood  coursed  in  rich  waves 
over  her  brow,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with  an 
eager  appeal.  Neil  and  I,  though  we  knew  our 
families  would  be  very  far  from  taking  things 
as  easily  as  Mr.  Donovan  predicted,  had  long 
since — I  at  least  in  the  early  morning,  Neil 
perhaps  as  soon — ^made  up  our  minds  to  sacri- 
fice our  families  and  everything  else  that  stood 
between  us  and  the  life  to  which  we  felt  dedi- 
cated by  our  talents,  our  opportunity,  and  our 
secret  love. 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       81 

'  *  Then  quick,  boys,  get  to  work !  * '  cried  Dono- 
van. 

Cicely  ran  to  the  blankets  and  drew  from  un- 
der them  two  pairs  of  tights  which  she  had 
ready.  Donovan  dressed  us  behind  a  canvas 
screen,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  acting 
turn  about  with  Cicely.  Donovan  was  a  bril- 
liant trainer,  and  Cicely  took  great  pains  to  in- 
struct us.  Charles  never  opened  his  mouth.  We 
worked  on,  oblivious  of  the  entries  land  sorties 
of  cavalcades,  clowns,  bare-back  riders,  and  jug- 
glers. It  is  true  we  heard  the  band-music  in  the 
circus  tent,  and  it  inspired  us.  One  or  two  cir- 
cus men  came  and  looked  at  our  operations,  but 
we  heeded  them  not.  I  dared  not  glance  at  Neil. 
Never  did  I  love  him  more,  yet  a  rage  of  jeal- 
ousy burned  in  my  brain.  Whatever  turn  he 
made  of  leg  or  arm,  I  tried  to  repeat  and  excel. 
His  best  efforts,  which  I  knew  I  could  not  equal, 
made  me  grind  my  teeth  and  sneer  inwardly.  I 
trust  I  was  able  to  conceal  my  emotions  from 
the  Donovans,  but  am  not  sure  that  Cicely  did 
not  understand  me  thoroughly.  It  was  a  hard 
afternoon,  both  for  our  bones  and  our  con- 
sciences. But  how  that  girl  could  perform! 
She  was  strong,  she  was  graceful,  she  was 
beautiful  in  every  motion.  Like  a  kitten  at 
play,  she  sprang  from  one  end  of  the  mat  to  the 
other,  crouching,  bounding,  feigning  difficulty 


82  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

where  none  existed  for  her,  and  concealing  ef- 
fort where  the  strain  was  immense.  Of  course 
the  programme  we  went  through  was  very 
simple  and  elementary,  and  the  boy  Charles 
never  ceased  to  look  as  if  he  despised  the  whole 
proceeding. 

At  last  Donovan  said,  *^  Thank  you,  boys, 
that's  enough.  You'd  better  go  home  now  and 
rest,  and  eat  a  good  supper,  but  not  too  much, 
and  be  here  again  by  six. ' ' 

The  evening  performance  was  billed  for 
seven  o'clock.  At  six  we  were  with  Donovan 
in  the  same  corner  of  the  dressing-tent,  waiting 
for  Cicely.  But  as  she  still  did  not  come,  Dono- 
van finally  went  out  to  his  carriage  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  and  returned  after  a  long  ab- 
sence, grumbling  to  himself,  and  said  with  a 
shrug:  **We  must  await  the  lady's  good 
pleasure."  Twice  again  he  lost  his  patience 
and  went  to  fetch  her,  but  returned  alone  each 
time.  Evidently  he  feared  to  lose  sight  of  us, 
lest  we  might  run  away.  Evidently,  too,  he 
could  not  hurry  his  accomplished  daughter.  At 
last,  not  much  before  seven,  she  appeared,  with 
a  face  much  discomposed.  She  had  been  crying, 
and  was  very  white  and  miserable.  **Well, 
Miss,"  cried  her  father,  **have  you  allayed  the 
scruples  of  Mr.  Punctilious!  Is  the  great  case 
of  conscience  settled!     Shall  we  dance  with 


ROMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       83 

partner  this  or  partner  that?  Hurry  up  now, 
what's  the  odds?'' 

Cicely  gave  him  a  reproachful  glance  and 
stepped  up  to  Neil  and  me,  and  said,  with  trem- 
bling voice :  **Boys,  we  want  to  thank  you,  my 
brother  and  I,  for  your  friendliness  to  us." 
Our  hearts  fell — ^was  she  going  to  throw  us  both 
over  and  give  up  the  performance  ?  *  *  No, ' '  she 
continued,  smiling  sadly  into  our  troubled  faces, 
**I  must  take  one  of  you — and — and — I  choose 
George. ' '  And  with  that  she  turned  her  face  to 
the  tent-wall. 

** Humph,"  growled  Donovan,  ''a  tragic  af- 
fair! Come  now.  Cicely,  no  more  opera!  Get 
yourself  ready,  while  I  dress  George." 

I  caught  one  glimpse  of  Neil,  the  light  all 
gone  from  his  face,  his  head  sunk  visibly  lower 
between  his  shoulders,  and  his  arms  dangling 
as  if  some  one  had  struck  him  a  fearful  blow. 
The  next  minute  he  had  vanished.  **  Could  it 
be  that  he  too  loved  Cicely?"  I  asked  myself 
hypocritically.  **Was  I  selfish  to  accept  my 
felicity?"  **How  could  I  help  it  if  she  pre- 
ferred me?"  Anyhow,  I  thought  it  was  heroic 
in  him  to  walk  away  so  quietly.  The  fear 
flashed  across  my  unwilling  mind  that  perhaps 
he  had  gone  to  betray  me,  to  tell  my  friends 
what  I  was  doing,  but  I  repelled  it  with  a  flush 
of  shame,  for  I  knew  him  incapable  of  such 


84  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

baseness.  But  the  ugly  suspicion  was  there, 
nevertheless,  and  returned  afterwards  at  inter- 
vals. 

Donovan  dressed  me  in  a  suit  of  Charles's 
tights,  and  then  proceeded  carefully  to  disguise 
me.  He  covered  my  forehead  and  one  eye  with 
a  broad  band  of  adhesive  plaster,  darkened  my 
skin  with  a  stain,  extended  and  depressed  the 
corners  of  my  mouth  with  rouge,  and  thickened 
my  eyebrows  with  burnt  cork.  At  a  distance 
and  under  the  vague  lights  of  a  circus  tent,  I 
might  pass  unrecognised  by  my  own  shadow. 

Our  performance  came  a  little  after  the  mid- 
dle of  the  programme.  Cicely  had  paid  no  at- 
tention to  me  after  she  came  back  in  her  ring 
costume,  and  avoided  my  eye  (literally  my  eye, 
for  one  was  bandaged).  But  just  before  going 
on,  she  came  up  and  pressed  my  hand.  Dono- 
van stepped  out  first,  arrayed  in  Moorish  dress, 
with  an  absurd  red  turban  and  a  pair  of  baggy 
red  trousers,  and  made  a  little  speech: 

**  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  performance 
which  you  will  now  have  the  pleasure  of  behold- 
ing consists  of  the  most  intricate,  difficult,  and 
dangerous  tumbling  ever  witnessed  by  the  eye 
of  man.  The  crowned  heads  of  Europe,  Asia, 
and  Africa  have  been  turned  giddy  by  contem- 
plating these  prodigies.  The  Twining  Twins, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  are  twelve  years  old,  and 


ROMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       85 

until  two  nights  ago  they  never  knew  a  care. 
But  at  an  entertainment  in  your  own  beautiful 
valley,  the  boy  was  painfully,  though  not  seri- 
ously, hurt.  Injured  in  the  performance  of 
duty,  the  little  hero,  despite  a  father's  protest, 
insists  upon  continuing  to  appear  before  the 
public,  whom  he  adores !  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
these  are  honourable  scars.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men—  " 

**0h,  stop  your  whine  and  let  'em  twine!" 
yelled  a  voice  from  the  benches,  which  I  recog- 
nised as  the  voice  of  Arty  Speer,  the  town  hu- 
mourist. The  town  appreciated  wit,  for  a  roar 
of  laughter,  dominated  by  the  wild  guffaws  of 
Tom  Gough,  sexton  of  the  Presbyterian  church, 
drowned  Donovan's  further  eloquence. 

**Come,"  said  Cicely,  and  we  ran  into  the 
ring.  Our  first  trick  or  two  received  little  no- 
tice, for  Shippensburg  was  enjoying  the  annual 
exhibition  of  Tom  Gough 's  extravagant  sense 
of  humour.  This  was  fortunate,  as  we  had  re- 
served our  best  parts  for  the  last,  and  even  our 
best  was  barely  passable.  And  Cicely  had  de- 
vised a  few  little  bits  of  solo  tumbling,  which 
she  did  very  well,  while  I  pretended  to  adjust 
my  bandages.  We  pulled  through  somehow ;  in 
pretty  ragged  style,  I  have  no  doubt.  To  this 
day,  the  memory  of  those  ten  minutes  is  like  a 
nightmare,  and  when  I  try  to  recall  details,  I 


86  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

hear  only  that  horrible  roar  of  a  great  crowd, 
with  Tom  Gough's  shrieks  soaring  above  the 
din,  and  not  the  lovely  band-music  playing 
'*The  Blue  Jnniata,*'  and  I  see  only  a  confused 
dancing  of  lights,  and  not  the  soft  glow  of  Ci- 
cely's black  eyes.  But  out  of  this  dim  and  pain- 
ful confusion  one  point  pierces  sharp  and  un- 
forgetable — Neil's  face,  suddenly  perceived  at 
the  last  moment,  as  we  trotted  out  through  the 
passage  to  the  dressing-room. 

Romeo,  followed  by  Little  Nannie  and  the 
Sahara  Caravan,  consisting  of  three  scrawny 
camels,  was  entering  the  circus  tent,  and  I  al- 
most ran  between  his  forelegs,  but  he  brushed 
me  away  with  his  trunk,  as  if  I  had  been  a 
troublesome  puppy,  and  sent  me  rolling  into  a 
corner.  There  I  found  Zazel,  the  human  can- 
non-ball, composing  the  plaits  of  her  hair  into  a 
pad  for  her  oft-endangered  head.  A  juggler 
was  taking  his  swords  out  of  a  long  box.  A 
clown,  Mr.  James  Harmony,  as  I  afterwards 
learned,  was  sticking  hairpins  into  the  head- 
dress of  the  Sheik's  Daughter,  or  the  Arabian 
Bareback  Artist,  who,  when  I  was  subsequent- 
ly presented  to  her,  was  content  with  the  less 
romantic  name  of  Miss  Polly  'Aines,  and  dis- 
tinguished in  private  life  only  by  a  cockney  ac- 
cent. These  ladies,  I  found,  had  great  trouble 
in  keeping  their  hair  up,  and  one  reason,  no 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       87 

doubt,  for  poor  James  Harmony's  well-known 
popularity,  both  in  this  show  and  the  others  he 
afterwards  belonged  to,  was  his  habit  of  carry- 
ing hairpins,  safety-pins,  and  hatpins  in  a  se- 
cure place  about  his  person,  for  the  use  of  all 
who  required  assistance  in  their  toilets. 

By  the  time  the  performance  closed.  Simple 
Simon  was  in  the  shafts  again,  greatly  re- 
freshed by  oats  from  my  grandfather's  barn, 
and  we  were  in  the  carriage  threading  our  way 
through  the  departing  crowd.  I  could  hear  a 
hoarse  voice  trying  to  persuade  people  to  stay 
and  attend  the  *^ concert,''  for  the  small  price 
of  one  dime  or  ten  cents.  The  red,  smoky  flare 
of  torches  made  the  darkness  only  more  intense. 
We  were  choked  with  invisible  dust.  The  side- 
shows were  falling  like  houses  of  cards,  and  the 
vast  menagerie-tent  had  already,  to  my  sur- 
prise, vanished  completely,  though  the  rank 
savage  odour  of  wild  beasts  still  lay  heavy 
about  the  place.  Romeo  and  Little  Nannie,  the 
camels,  and  trained  horses,  and  all  the  animal 
cages  had  disappeared,  and  I  could  hardly  per- 
suade myself  we  should  ever  see  them  again, 
so  like  magic  seemed  their  flight.  I  shall  not 
trouble  my  readers  with  a  statement  of  the  hor- 
rid condition  of  my  conscience  as  I  thus  sneaked 
away  from  my  home  and  native  town.  But  I 
was  desperately  afraid — afraid  to  go,  afraid  of 


88  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

being  caught  and  kept  from  going.  As  we 
squeezed  through  the  narrow  alley  jammed 
with  people,  which  led  to  the  Chambersburg 
road,  a  hand  was  pushed  through  the  side  of  our 
carriage,  and  a  voice  whispered:  ** Fighting 
Blood!''  *^True  Blue''  I  blurted,  with  a  rush  of 
tears,  and  a  big  lump  in  my  throat,  and  seized 
the  proffered  hand.  **01d  man,  you  did  well," 
the  voice  continued.  **Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip, 
and  I'll  cover  your  tracks.  I'll  stop  at  your 
house  and  say  you  were  afraid  to  go  home  for 
fear  of  being  punished  for  going  to  the  circus  at 
night,  and  that  you're  going  to  sleep  with  me. 
And  to-morrow  morning  I  '11  go  fishing  with  you 
before  breakfast  and  stay  all  day."  **Good 
bye,  old  Neil,"  I  whispered,  **you  are  Tkue 
Blue." 

The  next  night  we  performed  in  Chambers- 
burg. Donovan  had  with  difficulty  persuaded 
the  owners  to  omit  the  Twining  Twins  perfor- 
mance at  the  afternoon  show.  We  employed 
the  time  thus  gained  in  practice.  Cicely 
frowned  black  upon  me  every  time  I  spoke  to 
her  or  looked  at  her,  except  for  good  reason. 
Her  cond.uct,  and  an  unspeakable  weariness  in 
all  my  body,  and  the  pangs  of  guilty  conscience 
made  me  wretchedly  unhappy.  As  I  had  many 
acquaintances  in  Chambersburg,  I  was  obliged 
to  lie  in  the  carriage  all  day  except  when  prac- 


ROMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       89 

tising  behind  a  screen  in  the  dressing-tent. 
Donovan  was  busy  telling  some  lie  to  the  circus 
people,  who  were  becoming  inquisitive.  Charles 
alone  was  kind  to  me, — for  him  astonishingly 
kind.  He  and  I  lay  in  the  back  of  the  carriage 
conversing  quite  sociably. 

The  towns  of  the  Cumberland  Valley  are  dis- 
tributed along  its  length  at  intervals  of  from 
ten  to  tv/elve  miles,  on  purpose  to  accommodate 
circuses.  Greencastle  is  ten  miles  south  of 
Chambersburg,  and  Hagerstown  ten  miles 
south  of  Greencastle.  We  played  in  these  three 
towns  on  successive  nights,  Donovan  with  in- 
creased difficulty  obtaining  permission  to  have 
the  afternoons  for  practice.  He  had  two  ob- 
jects in  this.  One  was  to  develop  my  talents, 
which  proved  to  be  very  limited ;  the  other,  and 
more  important,  was  to  conceal  me  from  the 
tell-tale  light  of  day.  I  learned  in  Greencastle 
that  the  owners  had  been  closely  questioned 
about  a  runaway  boy,  and  had  warned  Donovan 
that  he  could  not  keep  me  long.  It  was  becom- 
ing an  open  secret  among  the  circus  people  that 
Donovan  had  picked  up  a  substitute  for  his  son. 

We  reached  Martinsburg,  West  Virginia,  late 
on  Sunday  morning  after  crossing  the  Potomac 
River  in  the  night,  and  slept  all  that  day,  except 
for  the  afternoon  practice,  which  Cicely  and  I 
went  through  as  usual.    She  consistently  avoid- 


90  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

ed  me  at  other  times.  Once  or  twice,  however, 
when  I  was  gloomiest,  I  felt  myself  mysterious- 
ly enveloped  by  her  soft,  luminous  gaze,  and 
some  of  the  romance  which  was  slipping  away 
so  fast  came  floating  back.  Charles  lay  on  his 
face  in  the  sun  all  day,  and  said  the  warmth  was 
doing  him  good.  Donovan  smoked  his  pipe,  and 
never  went  far  from  the  carriage,  in  which  I 
was  obliged  to  remain  behind  drawn  curtains. 
Cicely  wandered  at  will. 

Monday  afternoon  Charles  donned  his  ring 
costume  and  showed  me  some  tricks.  He  tested 
his  back  in  various  postures,  and  declared  he 
should  be  well  in  twenty-four  hours.  Unhappy 
as  I  was,  it  did  not  altogether  please  me  to 
think  my  circus  days  might  so  soon  be  over. 
But  I  had  never  expected  to  stay  longer  than 
until  Charles  should  be  himself  again. 

That  night  as  we  trotted  out  of  the  ring,  a 
man,  who  sat  where  I  must  pass  him,  rose  and 
laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  spoke  my 
name.  It  was  my  Uncle  James.  He  accom- 
panied me  into  the  dressing  tent,  and  with  him 
came  a  policeman. 

** Uncle  James,''  I  begged,  '*do  not  trouble 
the  people  I  am  with.  I  will  go  home  with  you, 
and  they  are  not  to  blame." 

**I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  replied.  But 
when  he  turned  to  look  for  Cicely,  she  was  gone. 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE        91 

In  a  moment,  however,  she  lifted  a  flap  of  the 
tent  and  was  back  again,  and  I  knew  she  had 
been  out  to  warn  her  father,  and  that  Simple 
Simon  was  already  being  harnessed  to  the  car- 
riage. Unmindful  of  the  policeman.  Cicely  ad- 
vanced to  me,  took  my  hand,  kissed  it,  wet  it 
with  her  tears,  and  without  lifting  her  face, 
murmured:  ** Thank  you,  George;  you  have 
helped  us  out  of  our  trouble.  My  brother  will 
be  well  tomorrow,  I  am  sure.  We  shall  be  away 
from  this  town  in  ten  minutes,  if  you  keep  the 
policeman  here.'*  Then  after  a  pause,  she  con- 
tinued: ** Forgive  me  for  being  cross  to  you,*' 
and  as  she  darted  out  into  the  black  night,  I 
was  caught  again  in  that  flood  of  soft  radiance 
which  she  had  the  power  of  projecting  from 
her  eyes. 

My  uncle  fortunately  took  time  to  explain  to 
me  that  he  wanted  to  have  Donovan  arrested, 
and  not  the  owners  of  the  circus,  and  as  Cicely 
had  predicted,  when  we  came  to  the  spot  where 
our  carriage  had  stood,  my  friends  had  disap- 
peared. A  telegram  was  sent  home  announcing 
my  capture,  and  Uncle  James  and  I  slept  at  a 
hotel  that  night  and  took  the  earliest  train 
northward  in  the  morning.  I  kept  thinking  of 
Donovan  and  Cicely  and  Charles  moving  in  the 
opposite  direction,  out  of  my  life  forever, — up 


92  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

the  Shenandoah  Valley  to-day,  and  who  knows 
where  to-morrow? 

I  had  a  most  uncomfortable  time  at  home  for 
awhile.  It  is  so  unpleasant  to  see  one's  family 
pretending  to  be  grieved.  But  I  had  only  to  go 
out  of  our  front  gate  to  feel  myself  a  hero.  The 
other  boys  were  very  handsome  about  that.  In 
my  heart,  I  knew  Neil  was  the  true  hero,  and 
one  damp  spring  evening,  nearly  a  year  later, 
when  the  frogs  were  piping  in  a  way  that  moved 
the  conscience,  as  we  were  standing  in  the  old 
pasture-lot,  with  our  feet  on  last  year's  circus 
ring,  now  covered  with  fresh  verdure,  I  told 
him  how  much  I  admired  his  conduct.  He  said 
never  a  word  and  turned  away  his  head. 

Eight  years  later  I  was  a  Senior  at  Prince- 
ton. Throughout  my  course  I  had  attended 
every  circus  that  came  along.  There  was  noth- 
ing peculiar  about  that,  for  no  Princeton  stu- 
dent ever  misses  one.  But  I  had  gone  with 
eyes  only  for  the  tumblers,  and  had  always 
come  away  disappointed.  In  May  of  Senior 
year,  however,  my  expectation  was  rewarded. 
I  saw  Cicely  and  Charles  perform.  Leaving  the 
tent  at  once,  I  met  Cicely  a  few  minutes  later 
in  the  field  outside,  and  asked  her  if  she  knew 
me.  She  shook  my  hand  heartily  and  called 
Charles.     He  looked  as  if  he  would  bite  my 


EOMEO  AND  LITTLE  NANNIE       93 

head  off,  till  she  told  him,  with  a  laugh,  who  I 
was,  and  then  he  was  affable  enough.  **Yes, 
those  were  hard  times,"  she  said,  after  we  had 
spoken  of  the  past;  **but  I  hope  I  may  never 
forget  them.  You  were  very  kind  to  Charles. 
For  my  part — I  wonder  if  you  noticed  it — I  was 
rather  smitten  by  the  good  looks  of  your  cousin 
Neil.''  **Yes,  she  was,''  interrupted  Charles, 
**and  I  wanted  her  to  choose  him  instead  of  you, 
for  he  certainly  was  a  better  tumbler,  but  she 
just  got  stubborn  and  insisted  on  you.  I  don't 
understand  it  yet.    I  suppose  it's  being  a  wo- 


LOST  VINETA 

I  have  shaken  hands  eagerly  with  many  a 
young  fellow  about  to  set  forth  upon  his  first 
visit  to  the  old  world,  for  travel  or  study,  and 
I  doubt  if  the  recipient  of  my  farewells  has 
ever  appreciated  how  heartfelt  my  congratula- 
tions were.  **I  envy  you  this  chance,  young- 
ster" or  **  I  wish  I  were  but  one  and  twenty, 
with  my  steamer  ticket  and  letter  of  credit  in 
my  pocket  and  all  the  world  before  me !  ^ '  The 
youngsters  often  seem  troubled  about  little 
things  and  incapable  of  responding  to  my  en- 
thusiasm. But  memory  has  obliterated  the 
trifles  for  me,  and  I  recall  only  the  sunshine  of 
glorious  days  and  the  happiness  of  discovering 
Europe,  and  am  apt  to  quote  to  the  indifferent 
boys,  with  a  flood  of  sympathy  in  my  heart,  the 
words  of  the  German  poet  which  summon  up 
for  me  so  much  that  deserves  gratitude  and 
ceaseless  memory: 

^^Wem  Gott  will  recJite  Gunst  erweisen, 
Den  schickt  Er  in  die  weite  Welt,'' 

Yet  I  ought  to  know  better  than  to  give  such 
indiscriminate  praise  to  the  bygone  times.    The 

94 


LOST  VINETA  95 

sunshine,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  not  uninter- 
rupted, and  now  that  I  stop  to  think,  there  were 
days  of  uncertainty  and  gloom.  And  perhaps 
a  youth  here  and  there,  of  those  to  whom  I  give 
a  parting  grasp  and  quote  my  favourite  lines  on 
such  occasions,  may  discover  the  bitterness  of 
death  beyond  the  smiling  seas.  One  at  least 
there  was,  vir  juvenis  ornatissimus,  as  he  is 
styled  in  his  old  matriculation  paper,  which  now 
hangs  on  my  library  wall,  and  which  proclaimed 
him  to  be  numero  civium  Universitatis  Frideri- 
cae  Guilelmae  Berolinensis,  who  drank  deep  of 
all  the  delights  of  old  romance,  only  to  find 
death,  Alas!  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup.  There 
can  be  no  harm  in  telling  his  story;  it  is  an 
honour  to  him  and  will,  I  trust,  not  check  the 
generous  hopes  or  dash  the  pleasure  of  any 
ardent  young  traveller. 

About  thirty-five  years  ago  a  group  of  seven 
or  eight  old  college  acquaintances  were  attend- 
ing the  University  of  Berlin,  with  what  small 
degree  of  profit  in  exact  scholarship  and  what 
large  amount  of  amusement  to  ourselves,  the 
survivors  alone  know, — and  will  never  tell.  At 
the  opening  of  the  summer  semester  two  of  our 
number,  who  had  spent  the  Easter  holidays  in 
Italy,  were  found  to  be  suffering  from  malaria. 
One  of  them,  Clarence  Walworth,  had  a  mild 
attack  and  was  soon  devoting  himself  to  nurs- 


96  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

ing  his  companion,  who  lay  in  a  low  condition 
all  spring.  With  quiet  pertinacity  he  contin- 
ued squandering  his  strength,  till  he  fell  into 
a  feebler  condition  than  his  patient,  and  the 
doctor  ordered  him  to  seek  a  change  of  air.  It 
was  agreed  at  a  conference  of  our  little  Prince- 
ton colony  with  the  landlady  and  the  physician 
that  I  was  to  go  with  Clarence,  and  early  in 
June  we  set  out  for  the  Baltic  coast  and  the 
Island  of  Riigen. 

After  a  quick  journey  by  train  to  Stettin  and 
thence  down  the  Haff  by  boat,  we  found  our- 
selves ere  nightfall  in  pleasant  little  Herings- 
dorf,  a  fishing  village  near  the  seaport  of 
Swinemtinde.  Here  when  my  pale  and  tired 
charge  had  laid  himself  to  rest  in  Lindemann's 
Hotel,  I  walked  out  in  the  late  northern  twi- 
light, reflected  in  part  from  the  sunset  clouds 
and  in  part  emanating  from  the  big  soft  stars 
that  were  rising  out  of  the  Baltic,  and  crossed 
the  dunes  to  the  seashore.  Oh,  that  first  breath 
of  salt  air,  that  first  sight  of  rolling  billows, 
that  first  sound  of  wet  crunching  sand,  after 
eight  months  of  city  pavements  and  stuffy  lec- 
ture-rooms! I  broke  into  a  run,  like  a  colt 
turned  out  to  pasture,  and  leaped  and  sprinted 
up  the  beach  till  my  unaccustomed  legs  failed 
and  the  night  had  come  in  earnest. 

When  I  crept  on  tip-toe  into  our  room  at 


LOST  VINETA  97 

Lindemann's  and  held  the  candle  for  a  good- 
night look  at  Clarence  as  he  slumbered  like  a 
babe,  with  flushed  face  and  damp  curly  hair,  I 
thought,  **Dear  boy,  this  kind  of  thing  will  soon 
set  you  straight. ' '  On  the  table  by  his  side  lay 
a  little  paper-bound  book  which  he  had  bought 
on  the  steamboat  that  afternoon, — a  sort  of  po- 
etical guide-book  for  the  northern  resorts,  half 
Baedeker,  half  Heine,  purposely  confounding 
hotel  advertisements  with  romantic  and  most 
attractive  descriptions  of  old  towers,  and  leg- 
ends of  the  Wends  and  Swedes  and  knights  of 
the  Teutonic  Order,  and  ballads,  and  snatches 
of  folk-songs.  I  turned  over  the  leaves  with 
a  smile  and  a  yawn,  and  read  a  page  here  and 
there  till  sleep  overtook  me. 

Back  to  Swinemunde  we  drove  rapidly  next 
morning,  but  not  fast  enough  to  meet  the 
steamer  for  Sassnitz,  which  we  could  just  see 
catching  the  outer  swell  with  her  load  of  sea- 
sick Berliners  bound  for  Copenhagen  on  their 
round-trip  tickets.  But  a  bull-nosed  little  brig 
lay  alongside  the  wharf,  her  sides  glistening  in 
the  sunshine  with  alternate  streaks  of  green 
and  white.  She  too  was  bound  for  Copenhagen, 
but  was  to  touch  at  Sassnitz,  and  her  yellow- 
haired  captain  agreed  to  take  us.  Was  it  young 
eyes  or  that  fresh  northern  sun  that  made  this 
vessel  look  so  very  green  and  white  and  the 


98  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Swedish  captain's  curls  so  very  yellow!  The 
toys  of  childhood  do  not  stand  in  my  memory 
painted  more  vividly.  I  have  been  up  and  about 
at  early  morn  by  many  a  wharf  since  then,  but 
never  seen  another  magic-ship  nor  a  sea-dog  of 
such  Viking  countenance. 

I  suppose  Bottger's  hotel  at  Sassnitz  is  no 
more.  I  fear  the  Island  of  Riigen  is  no  more, 
at  least  in  its  old  condition  of  perfect  loveliness. 
I  am  afraid  sea-sick  Berliners  have  found  out 
the  charms  of  pretty  Sassnitz  and  no  longer 
pass  it  by  with  their  round-trip  tickets  for 
Copenhagen.  But  we  found  Riigen  an  undis- 
covered country,  Sassnitz  almost  free  from 
tourists,  and  Bottger's  a  humble  and  unassum- 
ing hostelry  with  bare  floors,  big  rooms,  and 
complete  freedom.  At  first  we  took  long  drives, 
as  Clarence  dared  not  tax  his  strength  with  too 
much  walking,  and  visited  the  Stubbenkammer, 
and  Bergen,  and  Putbus,  and  even  crossed,  one 
day,  to  the  mainland  again,  by  the  ferry  at 
Stralsund,  and  saw  with  emotion  the  flagstone 
in  the  street  that  marks  the  spot  where  fell  the 
gallant  Schill  in  1809,  when  he  alone  and  the 
brave  few  who  flocked  to  his  call  dared  rise 
against  Bonaparte.  Not  in  vain,  0  Schill,  was 
thy  example.  Even  grand-ducal  and  royal 
breasts  were  touched  with  manly  envy  at  the 
news  of  thy  wild  raid,  and  lo !  many  years  after, 


LOST  VINETA  99 

two  boys  from  beyond  seas  felt  a  strange  stir- 
ring of  the  heart  upon  the  spot  that  commemo- 
rates thy  death,  and  murmured  the  elegy  a  son 
of  Riigen  wrote  for  thee — 

''0  Schill,  0  ScMll,  du  tapferer  Held!'' 

Of  all  these  places  the  Stubbenkammef  was 
much  the  nearest  to  our  headquarters  at  Sass- 
nitz,  and  we  made  frequent  visits  to  that  en- 
chanted spot.  Here  immense  white  chalk  cliffs 
rise  sheer  from  the  blue  sea  and  are  crowned 
with  the  greenest  of  beech-woods.  There  is 
something  especially  attractive  about  beech  for- 
ests, which  I  suppose  is  due  to  the  thinness  of 
their  foliage.  Rich  turf  will  grow  under 
beeches,  and  at  Stubbenkammer  the  tender 
green  of  the  grass  vied  in  brightness  with  the 
dark  glossy  green  of  the  leaves.  Here  we  would 
lie,  with  our  pipes  and  our  poetry,  and  gaze 
over  the  blue  water  toward  the  Arcona  light- 
house, and  the  Danish  islands  (out  of  sight)  be- 
yond, and  all  Norway  and  the  Arctic  circle  ly- 
ing next,  below  the  horizon.  From  their  short 
but  heavenly  summers  these  northern  peoples 
have  extracted  almost  as  much  poetry  as  the 
Greeks  and  Italians  have  distilled  from  their 
endless  days  of  sunshine,  and  indeed  I  thought 
the  northern  variety  the  more  romantic,  cer- 
tainly the  more  tender  and  exquisite.    We,  for 


100         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

our  part,  extracted,  with  much  self-pleasure 
and  laughter,  one  couplet  in  German  which  we 
deemed  equal  to  anything  of  Anacreon  or  Catul- 
lus. I  can  still  see  Clarence,  with  half -earnest 
face  and  outstretched  arms,  murmuring  our 
lines  over  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  as  if  giving  as- 
surance of  fidelity  to  some  dripping  goddess  of 
the  Baltic  foam; 

Anddchtig  still  am  Gestade  des  ewig  Idchelnden 

Meeres, 
Muth  und  Verlangen  und  Liebe  strecken  unend- 

lich  dahin! 

And  yet  one  peculiarity  of  Clarence's  conduct 
was  that  he  had  never  been  in  love  and  pro- 
fessed to  be  bored  by  femininity.  If  he  was 
the  only  handsome  man  in  our  colony — and  he 
was  not  merely  handsome,  but  beautiful — ^he 
was  our  only  misogynist,  not  in  a  loud  and  pro- 
fessing way,  but  by  a  sort  of  instinctive  dis- 
taste. He  was  our  man  of  distinguished  ideals, 
but  turned  aside  with  something  like  fear  from 
the  more  obvious  forms  of  goodness  and  beauty 
which  other  men  were  glad  to  accept. 

Perhaps  that  only  augmented  his  love  of  ro- 
mance. We  were  all  pretty  much  given  to 
Schwdrmerei.  No  American  student  could  say 
he  had  really  lived  in  Germany  unless  he  had 
had  his  enthusiasms.  Music  generally  came 
first,  and  then  arrived,  in  some  instances,  the 


LOSTVINETA  "     ''IM 

theatre  and  art,  and  in  others  German  history 
and  poetry,  in  others  landscape.  Clarence  had 
been  open  to  all  these  attractions,  especially  the 
last,  and  to  no  other  man  could  the  genius  loci 
whisper  secrets  more  deep  and  true  upon  short 
acquaintance.  With  the  help  of  his  little  book, 
he  would  now,  as  we  lay  on  the  top  of  the  cliff, 
impart  to  me  the  intimate  history  of  that  re- 
gion. **The  Insel  Rtigen,''  he  said  with  a  wave 
of  his  pale  hand,  **was  the  last  stronghold  of 
paganism  in  this  part  of  Europe.  While  the 
Kolner  Dom  was  rising  beside  the  Rhine,  and 
two  centuries  after  the  Norman  conquest  of 
England,  a  Slavonic  tribe  dwelt  here  in  this 
western  outpost  and  defied  all  Germany  and 
the  Christian  faith.  You  remember  yesterday 
at  the  Hertha  See,*'  he  added,  more  naturally 
and  a  little  impatiently:  **you  remember  I 
showed  you  that  stone  altar  with  its  runlets  for 
human  blood,  in  the  sacrifices — 

*  Great  God,  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn'  " — 

**But  hold  on,  Clarence,"  I  interrupted; 
*^  how  do  you  know  those  hollows  in  the  stone 
were  made  for  human  blood!" 

**How  do  I  know!  Why,  I  just  know  it.  And, 
of  course,  it  says  so  in  this  book.  But  the  book 
is  no  great  authority,"  he  added  with  a  flash  of 


m^^   "dreams  AND  MEMORIES 

contempt.  Then  he  took  to  peering  over  the 
cliff  into  the  sea,  almost  directly  below,  and  left 
me  to  my  smoking.  He  was  much  stronger  al- 
ready, and  that  day  we  had  sent  the  carriage 
home  and  expected  to  walk  the  six  miles  back 
to  our  hotel  at  Sassnitz.  The  moon  was  near 
the  full,  and  we  started  late  and  proceeded 
slowly  southward,  at  first  creeping  for  a  few 
yards  along  the  cliff,  in  the  forest  shadows,  and 
then  descending  for  safety  to  the  shining  beach. 
We  had  not  gone  many  paces  in  the  sand  when 
Clarence  touched  my  arm  gently  and  whispered 
*  *  Stop ! ' '  He  stood  in  a  listening  attitude,  and 
presently  I  thought  he  smiled,  and  he  nodded 
slightly.    ''Well,  what  is  itT'  I  asked. 

''Don't  you  hear  anything?*'  said  he. 

"No.'' 

"Anything  like  a  bell?"  he  went  on. 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  do." 

"Well,"  he  said  coolly,  after  a  pause,  "I 
don't  suppose  you  do;  I  don't  suppose  you 
can."  And  to  my  eager  inquiries  as  to  what 
he  meant,  he  said:  "I  think  I'll  save  it  for  to- 
morrow afternoon,  if  you  don't  mind.  It's  an 
old  legend,  and  we  can  talk  it  over,  on  the  cliff, 
to-morrow  afternoon." 

Herr  Bottger  in  those  primitive  days  was 
very  careless  or  confident ;  the  big  outside  door 
of  his   establishment   was   never   locked,   and 


LOST  VINETA  103 

guests  could  come  and  go  at  all  hours  of  the 
night  undisturbed.  When  we  reached  our  room 
and  lighted  our  candles,  Clarence's  appearance 
excited  my  alarm.  He  was  paler  than  usual  and 
his  eyes  were  brighter  than  I  liked  to  see  them. 
I  reproached  myself  for  having  allowed  him  to 
walk  those  six  miles.  He  slept  heavily,  too 
heavily,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  was  restless  and 
uncommunicative  all  next  morning.  The  Roman 
fever  had  made  him  actually  sullen  in  Berlin, 
but  his  depression  of  spirits  had  been  giving 
place  to  his  old  manner,  which  was  a  compound 
of  reserve  and  affectionate  gayety,  and  withal 
a  certain  delicate  grace  or  sprightliness  that 
set  him  apart  from  the  rest  of  mankind. 

When  afternoon  came,  he  insisted  on  repeat- 
ing the  performance  of  the  day  before,  and  I 
must  own  that  curiosity  helped  me  to  consent. 
We  drove  to  the  Stubbenkammer  through  the 
silent  woods  and  sent  the  carriage  back.  And 
up  there  on  the  cliff,  with  flaming  cheeks,  but 
no  other  sign  of  emotion,  he  at  last  began  to 
talk: 

**You  know  about  all  those  sunken  cities — 
the  one  off  the  coast  of  Brittany,  and  that  other 
off  the  coast  of  Wales  or  Cornwall,  I  forget 
which ;  and  you  Ve  heard  of  others  perhaps ;  but 
do  you  know,  right  down  there — there,  lies  the 
submerged  city  of  Vineta?" 


104         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

**0h,  see  here,  Clarry,"  cried  I,  ** don't  tell 
me  that !  Your  book  says  Vineta  is  off  Herings- 
dorf/' 

**I  know  it  does,"  he  answered  calmly,  **but 
that  book  is  all  wrong,  and  if  it  says  Herings- 
dorf  that's  mighty  good  proof  Vineta  is  some- 
where else.  Besides,"  he  continued  assuredly, 
**IVe  all  the  proof  I  want,  for  last  night  I 
heard  the  bell." 

' '  You  heard  the  bell ! "  I  cried.    ' '  What  bell  ? ' ' 

*  *  That 's  what  I  brought  you  here  to  tell  you, 
old  man, ' '  he  answered  soothingly.  *  *  You  know 
the  Wends,  or  whoever  they  were,  those  Slav- 
onic pagans,  held  out  here  longer  than  any- 
where else — far  into  the  Middle  Ages,  and  even 
when  the  church  was  built  at  Bergen  they  main- 
tained their  independence  here,  on  the  east 
coast  of  the  island.  And  they  had  a  beautiful 
white  city  here,  called  Vineta,  built  of  huge 
blocks  of  hard  chalk  dug  out  of  the  cliff.  They 
were  a  people  that  loved  the  sea.  Their  gods 
were  mostly  sea-gods, — except  Hertha,"  he  ad- 
ded reflectively,  **  except  Hertha,  whose  altar 
was  back  there  in  the  woods,  you  know.  So  the 
city  was  built  down  yonder  below  the  cliff,  close 
to  the  sea, — ^well,  in  what  is  now  the  sea,  of 
course — to  be  near  their  protecting  divinities. 
These  Vinetans,  as  we'll  call  them,  were  a  mild, 
gentle,  pious  folk" — 


LOST  VINETA  105 

**How  about  the  human  sacrifices  to 
Hertha?"  I  here  put  in. 

**0h,  Hertha  represented  an  older  and  more 
cruel  form  of  their  religion,  and  that  was  just 
the  trouble.  The  Germans,  who  were  Christian- 
ized and  spoke  a  different  language,  judged  the 
poor  Vinetans  by  what  they  saw  of  their  Her- 
tha-worship,  and  failed  to  appreciate  the  beauty 
and  significance  of  the  later  ritual,  which  was 
celebrated  on  the  waterfront  in  the  city  itself, 
and  which  no  Christian  was  allowed  to  behold. 
That  is  always  the  way  with  these  bitter  mis- 
conceptions ; — they  spring  from  ignorance.  Oh, 
the  harm  that  has  been  caused  by  prejudice  and 
ecclesiastical  rancour ! ' ' 

This  was  so  much  like  Clarence's  old  self, 
when  he  was  well  and  vigourous,  that  I  let  him 
go  on  unchecked,  although  I  could  hardly  fancy 
it  was  good  for  him  to  get  so  excited.  He  con- 
tinued: **Here  they  dwelt  far  down  into  the 
Middle  Ages,  practising  in  peace  the  simple 
rites  of  their  nature-worship.  Their  white  sails 
dotted  the  blue  sea  yonder,  and  returned  night 
after  night  to  the  shelter  of  Vinetans  pure  white 
walls.  Every  morning,  to  salute  the  rising  sun, 
her  citizens  assembled  on  the  broad  glistening 
stairs  that  led  to  the  water.  If  there  had  been 
no  instinct  in  mankind  leading  to  progress,  this 
little  city  might  have  preserved  her  lingering 


106         DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

cult  even  longer;  but  another  light  was  break- 
ing on  Eugen,  and  the  Vinetans  could  not  keep 
that  light  out.  All  the  forest-dwellers  went 
over,  village  after  village,  to  Christianity,  and 
at  last  it  was  unsafe  for  the  city  people  to  issue 
forth  to  worship  Hertha.  Then  sea-faring 
Vinetans  came  home  with  new  ideas,  learned  in 
the  river  towns  of  the  mainland,  and  by  and  by 
the  greater  part  of  the  population  was  Chris- 
tian, and  a  church  was  built  and  a  bell  hung  in 
its  tower,  and  everybody  could  foresee  the  end 
of  the  old  paganism. 

''But  there  was  one  who  would  foresee  noth- 
ing, admit  nothing,  and  that  was  the  priest  of 
the  sea-gods,  a  white-haired  old  man,  who  still 
continued  their  worship  with  unabated  cere- 
mony. His  following  dwindled  away.  He  spent 
all  his  wealth  in  costly  sacrifices  of  amber  and 
other  treasures  of  the  deep.  It  came  to  pass 
that  again  and  again  he  alone,  a  solitary  figure, 
stood  white-robed  on  the  waterfront  to  wel- 
come the  rising  sun.  His  only  daughter  washed 
his  sacerdotal  garments  and  provided  for  his 
bodily  welfare,  but  he  found  that  he  was  losing 
her  moral  support  and  that  even  she  was  in- 
clining to  the  new  religion.  But  in  the  day  of 
severest  trial  she  proved  constant  to  him,  for 
although  she  had  worshipped  in  the  Christian 
temple  she  was  not  taught  there  to  dishonour 


LOST  VINETA  107 

her  father  or  desert  the  poor  and  aged.  So  she 
accompanied  the  old  man  when  the  Vinetans 
turned  on  him  and  drove  him  from  the  city. 
For  several  years  they  lived  in  the  forest, 
haunting  the  sacred  hills  and  hiding  in  the  caves 
where  Hertha's  treasures  had  once  been  stored. 

**One  day  a  strange  disaster  befell  Vineta. 
From  some  cause  unknown,  perhaps  a  natural 
sinking  of  the  shore,  perhaps  the  work  of  angry 
gods,  the  lower  portion  of  the  city  was  partly 
submerged.  The  people  in  their  terror  were  of 
two  minds,  and  when  the  old  priest,  seizing  this 
opportunity,  appeared  among  them,  they  flocked 
back  to  paganism  by  thousands.  The  daughter, 
however,  was  singularly  silent.  When  women 
asked  her  if  she  were  not  happy  at  seeing  her 
father  raised  again  to  more  than  his  former 
eminence,  she  shook  her  head  sadly  and  con- 
fessed she  was  a  Christian. 

*  *  The  old  priest  was  preaching  a  new  doctrine 
now.  He  admitted  that  all  that  lived  above  the 
sea  and  on  the  land  were  destined  to  accept  the 
Christian  faith.  *  But  under  the  waves, '  he  said, 
*is  the  true  kingdom  of  our  ancient  gods.  At 
my  prayer  they  will  admit  us  now  to  their 
shadowy  realm,  granting  us  immortality.  All 
who  elect  the  Galilean  and  a  brief  mortal  exis- 
tence may  depart,  but  true  Vinetans  and  true 


108         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

sons  and  daughters  of  the  sea  will  remain  and 
sink  with  me  to  the  peaceful  depths.' 

**His  cry  was  believed.  Many  citizens,  chief- 
ly from  among  the  young  and  middle-aged,  left 
the  town  and  moved  inland  to  Bergen  and  other 
high-lying  places,  but  the  greater  number  re- 
mained. Those  who  departed  seemed  stricken 
with  a  strange  dread ;  those  who  stayed  behind 
were  supported  by  a  peculiar  exaltation  and 
lived  as  in  a  dream.  The  priest 's  daughter  was 
urged  by  her  young  companions  to  leave  with 
them  the  unhallowed  place.  She  wavered  in 
painful  suspense  for  a  time,  but  decided  to 
cast  in  her  lot  with  her  father,  although  she 
still  declared  she  was  a  Christian.  Many  a 
tragic  farewell  had  been  said,  many  a  family 
rudely  divided,  by  the  time  the  last  of  her  fel- 
low converts  had  climbed  up  the  winding  road 
that  led  inland.  From  that  day  all  communi- 
cation ceased  between  Vineta  and  the  Christian 
world.  The  strange  confidence  which  the  priest 
had  inspired  made  traffic  appear  useless,  and  if 
from  force  of  habit  a  few  fishermen  put  forth 
in  their  boats  they  kept  in  sight  of  home.  No 
one  from  the  outside  ventured  into  the  city,  not 
even  her  former  inhabitants.  It  was  as  if  she 
lay  under  a  ban  or  had  ceased  to  exist.  A  sense 
of  impending  doom  hung  like  an  exhalation  in 
her  half-deserted  streets.     Her  name  excited 


LOST  VINETA  109 

awe  throughout  the  island,  and  grew  infrequent 
on  men's  tongues. 

**One  morning  an  inland  shepherd,  breaking 
his  way  through  the  bushes  above  the  cliff  to 
steal  a  look  at  what  men  were  beginning  to  call 
the  lost  city,  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  in 
amazement  when  he  saw  no  vestige  of  Vineta 
on  the  shore  below.  The  sunlit  waves  rolled 
uninterrupted  almost  to  the  base  of  the  Stub- 
benkammer.  Only  the  narrow  beach  was  there, 
which  we  walked  on,  last  night." 

** That's  quite  a  yarn,  Clarence;  I  suppose 
you  found  it  in  that  book,*'  I  said. 

**Yes,''  he  answered  with  a  peculiar  smile, 
'  *  in  the  book. ' ' 

We  sat  for  a  long  time  gazing  down  at  the 
bright  mirror  of  the  water  four  hundred  feet 
below,  Clarence  flushed  and  still,  and  I  smoking 
peacefully.  He  turned  his  head  away  at  length 
and  said  in  a  low  voice:  ** There's  just  one 
thing  more ;  but  I  consider  it  important. ' '  His 
manner  was  so  singular  that  I  glanced  at  him 
sharply  and  asked:  **Eh?  What  do  you 
meanf 

**Why,  the  people  about  here — old  Nicholas 
the  boat-maker,  and  the  shepherd  in  the  Stub- 
benitz  woods — say  that  once  a  year,  during  the 
space  of  about  a  week,  you  can  hear  the  church- 
bell  of  Vineta  ringing  at  intervals,  and  they  say 


110         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

no  fisherman  will  stop  to  listen,  but  the  coward- 
ly fellows  all  row  to  land  as  fast  as  possible, 
and  even  run  away  from  the  beach.*' 

**I  never  thought  of  these  Riigen  fishermen 
as  cowards,  Clarence,''  I  said,  with  some  no- 
tion of  diverting  him. 

**Yes,  they  are  cowards  in  this  matter,"  he 
replied.  **That  bell  means  something.  It's  an 
appeal  of  some  kind,  and  the  next  time  I  hear  it 
I  intend  to  stay  and  listen." 

**The  next  time  you  hear  it!"  I  inquired. 

**Yes,  don't  you  remember,  we  heard  it  last 
night?"  he  replied  warmly. 

**I  didn't  hear  it,"  I  insisted. 

**But  I  did,"  was  his  firm  response. 

I  had  almost  to  drag  him  home  that  evening. 
He  said  it  was  too  early  to  go,  for  the  moon 
was  not  up  yet.  But  the  moon  was  one  day 
nearer  the  full,  and  of  course  later  than  the 
day  before,  and  I  had  been  alarmed  at  his  ex- 
citement even  then.  We  passed  the  place  where 
he  had  heard  the  bell,  and  although  I  humoured 
him  by  waiting  at  least  five  minutes,  he  could 
not  hear  it  this  time.  We  walked  half  a  mile 
farther,  he  protesting  and  I  insisting.  At 
length  he  became  so  angry  and  excited  that  I 
obeyed  his  wish,  which  was  that  I  should  go 
ahead  to  Bottger's  and  let  him  return  to  the 
spot  and  wait  there  alone  for  a  few  moments. 


LOST  VINETA  111 

Remembering  that  the  moon  would  soon  be  up 
to  light  him  home,  and  dreading  his  stubborn 
fit  in  its  effect  on  his  health,  I  unwillingly 
promised  to  go  straight  to  the  hotel  and  wait 
for  him.  Half  an  hour  after  my  arrival  there, 
he  came  in. 

I  was  unable  to  judge  whether  he  was  the 
better  or  the  worse  for  having  his  own  way. 
His  manner  was  quieter  than  it  had  been.  The 
flush  in  his  cheeks,  for  which  I  always  watched 
so  attentively,  was  not  there  tonight ;  indeed  he 
was  very  pale.  He  was  wet  to  the  knees,  but  I 
did  not  venture  to  remark  on  that.  When  he 
entered  the  room  he  looked  at  me  hard  for  a 
moment,  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  turned  away 
in  silence  and  sat  down  on  his  bed.  At  last  he 
said  feebly:  **01d  fellow,  I*m  dead  tired. 
Won't  you  go  down-stairs  and  get  that  Alma- 
nac that  hangs  in  the  hallT'  I  obeyed,  and 
brought  the  little  quarto  that  hung  from  a  nail 
between  the  barometer  and  the  stuffed  sword- 
fish.  He  snatched  it  from  me,  and  then  looked 
up  at  me  with  one  of  his  winsome  smiles,  and 
very  softly  said,  *  *  Old  man,  I  suppose  you  think 
I'm  a  troublesome  patient,  and  indeed  I  am — a 
surly,  ridiculous,  miserable,  disobedient,  un- 
grateful child."  One  of  his  kind  smiles  was 
enough  to  bring  me  round  at  any  time,  and  I 
thought  he  was  himself  again,  till  I  noticed  that 


112         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

he  was  not  really  paying  the  least  attention  to 
me,  but  was  hurrying  through  the  Almanac, 
with  trembling  fingers  and  shining  eyes.  He 
puzzled  over  it  a  long  time,  making  calculations 
and  comparing  one  page  with  another.  **This 
is  June  the  twenty-first,  isn't  itf  he  asked 
abruptly. 

**June  the  twentieth,''  I  answered. 

He  seemed  not  to  hear  me,  and  went  on, 
speaking  to  himself ;  *  *  Full  moon — longest  day 
of  the  year — neap  tide,  lowest  in  the  year,  at 
midnight ' ' — 

I  meanwhile  was  furtively  reading  the  guide- 
book from  which  he  professed  to  have  derived 
so  much  information.  Only  a  few  points  of  his 
Vineta  story,  not  more  than  a  hint  or  so,  were 
there.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  we  had  re- 
mained long  enough  at  Sassanitz,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  speaking  to  him  about  a  change, 
when  he  addressed  me :  *  *  I  heard  the  bell  again 
to-night. ' ' 

In  my  self-reproach  and  uneasiness,  I  said 
nothing,  and  he  continued  in  a  low,  steady  voice 
that  expressed  absolute  conviction:  '*And  I 
heard  a  call  from  the  sea.  They  have  im- 
mortal life.  The  maid  of  Vineta  is  immortal, 
but  unhappy.  She  cannot  come  up  to  the  sun- 
light, and  live,  and  love,  and  die,  like  other 
women.  She  finds  no  peace  beneath  the  sea. 
My  friend,  she  has  but  one  chance  in  the  world. 


LOST  VINETA  113 

If  a  Christian  man  for  her  sake  will  go  down 
and  live  with  her  in  lost  Vineta  and  forego  the 
light  of  day  and  all  his  earthly  hopes,  they  both 
may  live  in  Vineta  the  span  of  common  life,  and 
die  and  be  at  rest.  This  chance  the  God  of 
heaven  has  given  her  and  the  gods  of  the  sea 
cannot  take  away.  Once  in  ages  the  chance  is 
open — when  the  moon  is  full,  at  midnight  of  the 
longest  day  in  the  year,  and  the  annual  neap 
tide  is  out.  I  'm  a  useless  fellow.  I  have  sought 
to  devote  myself  to  a  dozen  good  causes  and  al- 
ways failed  to  help  anybody.  I  am  determined 
to  save  that  lost  soul." 

I  spent  a  weary  hour  trying  to  quiet  him,  and 
by  eleven  o'clock  he  had  fallen  asleep,  with  his 
head  on  my  arm.  After  making  him  comfort- 
able on  his  pillow,  I  crept  into  my  own  bed  and 
lay  there  a  long  time  listening  to  his  breathing 
and  thanking  Heaven  that  he  was  under  my 
control  still,  and  that  to-morrow  we  could  take 
the  boat  for  Stettin.  I  slept  and  woke  alter- 
nately, scarce  daring  to  lose  consciousness. 
The  first  time  I  was  aware  of  having  dozed,  I 
reassured  myself  by  his  light  breathing  that 
Clarence  was  all  right,  and  so  again  a  second 
time.  A  third  time  I  became  conscious,  and 
barkened,  but  could  hear  nothing!  Instantly  I 
was  on  my  feet  and  creeping  toward  his  bed. 
It  was  empty,  but  still  warm !  I  struck  a  match. 
Ten  minutes  past  twelve! 


114         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

In  three  minutes  more  I  was  running  along 
the  beach,  not  as  I  had  run  at  Heringsdorf,  re- 
joicing in  the  roar  of  waters,  but  cursing  the 
sea  and  the  night  and  my  carelessness.  A  mile, 
two  miles,  three  I  ran,  ere  I  reached  the  spot 
towards  which  my  fears  drew  me,  and  then 
stopped — indeed  I  could  not  have  run  a  step 
further — stopped  and  looked  forward  up  the 
sand,  and  out  to  sea,  and  listened.  Hark !  can  it 
be?  Do  I  hear  a  bell?  Or  is  it  only  the  ringing 
of  the  surf?  What  is  that,  beyond  the  breakers, 
in  the  calmer  water  outside?  Is  it  not  a  white 
arm  waving?  Or  is  it  a  crest  of  foam  on  a 
racing  billow?  I  saw  no  other  signal  and  heard 
no  other  sound,  though  I  stumbled  on,  all  the 
way  to  the  Stubbenkammer,  with  my  gaze 
turned  seaward.  Across  the  broad  path  of  the 
risen  moon  many  a  wave  was  tossing,  and  the 
surf  rang  hard,  and  the  shingle  hissed,  but 
nothing  spoke  to  me  in  my  dear  boy^s  name. 
It  was  all  inhuman,  fierce,  implacable. 

Then  I  turned  wildly  for  home,  and  woke  the 
people  there,  and  the  weary  search  continued 
till  the  early  northern  dawn  appeared,  and  the 
sun  came  up,  and  the  moon,  that  had  seen  it  all, 
went  down  in  the  west.  And  an  hour  later  we 
found  him,  rolling  in  shallow  water,  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  and  in  his  clasped  arms  a  long  grey 
seaweed. 


HAWKSHEAD  AND  DOVE  COTTAGE 

There  is  a  cottage  in  Grasmere  vale  which  is, 
beyond  comparison,  a  nest  of  famous  poems. 
Six  miles  away  is  a  village  whose  figure  and 
life  have  been  depicted  with  unmatched  har- 
mony of  poetic  glamour  and  fidelity  to  detail. 
These  holy  places  have  changed  very  little  in 
more  than  a  century,  and  the  flutter  of  wings 
can  be  heard  in  them  yet,  **  souls  of  poets  dead 
and  gone ' ' ;  but  the  enormous  influx  of  indiff er- 
ent  travellers  will  soon  frighten  away  the  vis- 
ionary habitants,  already  faint  with  their  long 
vigil.  The  genius  of  William  and  Dorothy 
Wordsworth  and  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  still 
breathes  in  its  old  haunts,  for,  thus  far,  only 
**the  unimaginable  touch  of  time''  has  been  at 
work  here.  A  human  warmth  still  lingers  at 
Grasmere  and  Hawkshead  from  days  long  past, 
when  they  were  the  scene  of  youthful  hope  and 
intellectual  adventure.  Several  old  people  at 
Grasmere  and  Rydal  remember  the  Words- 
worths,  but  the  anecdotes  they  tell  throw  no 
light  upon  those  early  years  about  which  one 
would  wish  so  much  to  ask  certain  questions, 
years  when  a  momentous  conflict  was  waging  in 

115 


116         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

the  minds  of  the  three  friends  and  Words- 
worth's poetic  activity  was  at  the  full.  How- 
ever, a  sense  of  nearness  pervades  the  ancient 
places,  a  sense  of  presences;  and  it  is  not  the 
aged  and  renowned  poet  of  whom  one  thinks  at 
Dove  Cottage,  but  the  young  enthusiast  as 
Shuter  and  Hancock  painted  him  and  as  we 
find  him  drawn  with  finer  precision  in  Doro- 
thy's Grasmere  Journal.  Facility  of  access  will 
scatter  the  perfume  that  has  clung  so  long  to 
these  once  sequestered  nooks. 

To  appreciate  the  spirit  that  led  the  feet  of 
William  and  Dorothy  Wordsworth  to  Dove  Cot- 
tage in  1799,  one  need  only  recall  what  his 
earlier  life  in  the  Lake  Country  meant  to  the 
brother  and  how  unquiet  the  time  had  been  for 
them  both  since  he  left  it,  twelve  years  before. 
On  the  death  of  his  mother,  in  1778,  William, 
then  in  his  ninth  year,  was  sent  to  Hawkshead, 
a  village  in  Esthwaite  vale,  to  attend  the  Gram- 
mar School  founded  by  Edwin  Sandys,  Arch- 
bishop of  York,  in  1585.  He  lodged  in  the  cot- 
tage of  Dame  Anne  Tyson.  Hawkshead  is  the 
scene  of  the  most  spontaneous  books  of  the 
*  *  Prelude. ' '  The  memory  of  his  boyhood  there, 
in  glorious  freedom  of  play  and  reverie,  formed 
the  background  of  his  poetic  sympathies.  The 
life  was  wholesome  and  happy.  The  boys 
ranged  at  liberty  over  wide  stretches  of  moun- 


HAWKSHEAD  117 

tain  and  moorland  or  took  shelter  with  their 
good  ** dames*'  by  the  peat  fire  for  study  or 
quiet  sports.    They  felt 

**The  paper  kite  high  among  fleecy  clouds 
Pull  at  her  rein  like  an  impetuous  courser." 

They  rambled,  with  rod  and  line, 

**By  rocks  and  pools  shut  out  from  every  star, 
All  the  green  summer. '* 

When  they  skated  on  Esthwaite  Lake, 

**with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud; 
The  leaflless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron ;  while  far-distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars. 
Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away.'' 

No  other  record  of  childhood  so  magically  re- 
calls the  sense  of  largeness,  of  the  luminous 
dark,  and  of  tired  but  happy  bodies,  as  this  de- 
scription of  their  sununer  evenings  under  the 
big  tree  in  the  village  square : 

**Duly  were  our  games 
Prolonged  in  summer  till  the  daylight  failed: 
No  chair  remained  before  the  doors ;  the  bench 
And  threshold  steps  were  empty;  fast  asleep 
The  labourer,  and  the  old  man  who  had  sate 
A  later  lingerer ;  yet  the  revelry 
Continued  and  the  loud  uproar :  at  last, 


118         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

When  all  the  ground  was  dark,  and  twinkling 

stars 
Edged  the  black  clouds,  home  and  to  bed  we 

went 
Feverish  with  weary  joints  and  beating  minds." 

To  the  young  poet  came  also  solitary  and 
awful  joys,  **  Visions  of  the  hills,  and  Souls  of 
lonely  places. '^  Pushing  out  on  the  lake  in  a 
stolen  boat,  one  evening,  he  felt  Nature  herself 
reach  after  him  with  a  compelling  hand.  A 
huge  black  peak  rose  unexpectedly  above  the 
shore, 

**And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape 
Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  and 

still, 
For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 
And  measured  motion  like  a  living  thing. 
Strode  after  me." 

Sometimes  through  half  the  night,  and  feel- 
ing himself  to  be  a  trouble  to  the  peace  that 
dwelt  among  the  moon  and  stars,  he  wandered 
over  the  open  heights  with  springes  to  catch 
woodcocks;  and  when  he  had  yielded  to  the 
temptation  to  empty  the  traps  of  other  boys,  he 


**I  heard  among  the  solitary  hills 
Low  breathings  coming  after  me,  and  sounds 
Of  undistinguishable  motion,  steps 
Almost  as  silent  as  the  turf  they  trod. ' ' 


HAWKSHEAD  119 

A  nobler  fear  was  his  when  he  hung  alone  on 
the  perilous  ridge, 

** Above  the  raven's  nest,  by  knots  of  grass 
And  half -inch  fissures  in  the  slippery  rock 
But  ill  sustained,  and  almost  (so  it  seemed) 
Suspended  by  the  blast  that  blew  amain, 
Shouldering  the  naked  crag.'' 

These  experiences,  with  sound  schooling  and 
the  kind  but  unobtrusive  care  of  his  **dame," 
would  make  a  manly  boy.  They  ministered 
abundantly  to  Wordsworth's  love  of  Nature 
and  sturdy  independence  of  vision.  They  gave 
him  that  reliance  upon  the  memories  of  child- 
hood as  a  store  of  wisdom  which  is  perhaps  his 
most  singular  trait. 

Hawkshead  is  essentially  unchanged.  But  to 
see  it  as  it  may  have  looked  to  Wordsworth  in 
1778,  one  must  reject  all  the  modern  *  ^facili- 
ties" of  travel,  which  spell  ruin  to  a  deep  and 
fine  impression,  and  enter  it  on  foot.  It  is  only 
a  good  hour's  walk  from  Ambleside,  lying  near 
the  heads  of  Windermere  and  Coniston  Water 
and  just  above  its  own  small  lake  of  Esthwaite. 

It  was  the  longest  day  of  the  year,  when  we 
two  devout  Wordsworthians  and  our  little  ones, 
to  whom  ^* William"  and  ** Dorothy"  and  **S. 
T.  C."  were  **  names  familiar  in  their  mouths 
as  household  words,"  set  out  for  Hawkshead. 
Young    sunshine    was    romping    with    silvery 


120         DEEAMS  AJND  MEMORIES 

showers,  which  hid  themselves  tearfully  behind 
hill  and  wood  only  to  rush  laughing  again  across 
the  vales.  The  water  of  the  Brathay  was  glid- 
ing swiftly  over  its  brown  bed  into  the  deep  blue 
of  Windermere.  Blackbirds  were  whistling 
among  the  fresh  leaves  and  thrushes  warbling 
on  every  green  slope.  We  passed  a  gorgeous 
gipsy  van  piled  high  with  wicker-ware.  Sus- 
pended from  its  hind  axle,  two  little  girls  were 
rocking  back  and  forth  in  swings.  The  van  was 
their  world,  and  a  very  big  and  sufficient  world 
they  must  have  thought  it.  Like  our  world,  it 
offered  all  the  advantages  of  a  double  motion. 
The  further  we  got  from  Ambleside,  the  wilder 
grew  the  country  and  the  plainer  the  houses, 
until  at  last  there  were  no  traces  of  villadom. 
Over  a  wooded  divide  we  go ;  then  down  an  easy 
slope,  through  wheatfields,  which  are  separated 
from  the  road  by  thin  flagstones  stood  on  end 
and  overtopped  with  hawthorn  hedges  and  the 
climbing  rose.  We  have  passed  from  West- 
morland into  Lancashire,  and  a  fine  Gothic 
window  in  a  barn,  which  was  once  a  monks' 
court  of  justice  or  tithing-house,  bears  witness 
to  the  fact  that  this  region  was  formerly  an 
apanage  of  Furness  Abbey.  There  are  few  ob- 
jects more  picturesque,  really  inviting,  that  is, 
to  a  painter,  than  blacksmith-shops,  and  on  our 


HAWKSHEAD  121 

right  we  perceive  a  smithy  which  is  almost  too 
much  like  a  picture  to  be  fit  for  its  humble  office. 

In  a  moment  we  are  entering  Hawkshead,  be- 
tween one  and  two  story  houses,  brown,  grey, 
and  white,  which  elbow  into  the  street  at  all 
sorts  of  angles.  Little  squares,  or  rather  tri- 
angles and  rhomboids,  appear  unexpectedly. 
Two  minutes  walk,  seemingly  in  one  direction, 
brings  the  bewildered  traveller  back  to  his 
starting-point.  No  inhabitants  are  visible.  The 
village  is  bewitched.  Is  it  a  village,  or  a  cluster 
of  natural  rocks?  At  last  a  suggestion  of  sub- 
stantial England,  in  the  shape  of  a  comfortable- 
looking  inn,  reassures  us;  and  as  Wordsworth 
deigned  to  mention,  in  a  notorious  line,  the  hos- 
telry where  he  alighted  in  Cambridge,  so  my 
pen  refuses  not  to  name  the  Red  Lion,  nor  to 
record  the  lunch  of  which  we  there  partook,  so 
English  in  its  plain  abundance  and  the  quiet- 
ness and  privacy  with  which  it  was  served. 

The  Grammar  School  was  only  a  few  steps 
farther.  Master  and  scholars  had  gone  out. 
The  door  stood  open,  and  sunshine  filled  the 
large  square  room  where,  next  the  entrance, 
Wordsworth 's  bench  still  does  duty.  His  name, 
carved  deep  in  the  wood,  is  protected  with  a 
sheet  of  plate  glass.  The  master's  desk  and 
the  fireplace  are  at  one  end  of  the  room.  The 
boys'  benches  surround  an  open  space  in  the 


122         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

centre,  where  the  classes  stand  to  recite.  It 
seems  natural  that  little  William  Wordsworth's 
place  should  be  the  one  nearest  the  outer  door. 
The  number  of  pupils  has  dwindled  since  the 
days  when  this  was  one  of  the  favourite  classi- 
cal schools  in  the  north  country.  An  aged  man 
told  us  the  boys  still  got  a  good  preparation  for 
the  careers  of  clergymen,  druggists,  and  post- 
masters.* In  old  times  the  pupils  were  drawn 
from  a  wide  range  of  society,  from  rich  families 
in  large  market  towns  like  Cockermouth  and 
Penrith,  from  country  families  of  higher  rank, 
from  professional  circles,  and  chiefly  from  the 
valley  farms.  When  school  hours  were  over 
their  work  was  done  for  the  day,  and  they  were 
free  to  scamper  over  the  blue  flagstones  that 
paved  and  still  pave  the  village  streets,  or  to 
buy  cakes  and  root-beer  from  the  old  woman 
who  spread  her  little  stock  of  tempting  wares 
on  a  rock  that  jutted  up  in  the  square,  or  to 
range  over  the  countryside.  No  wonder  M.  Le- 
gouis  in  his  ^'Jeunesse  de  William  Words- 
worth'*  is  impressed  with  the  contrast  between 
this  life  and  that  of  French  boys  in  their  lycees. 
Liberty,  not  only  to  wander,  but  to  read  at  will, 

*  This  ancient  school,  which  did  such  inestimable  ser- 
vice to  our  English  race,  has  recently  been  discontinued 
for  lack  of  support. 


HAWKSHEAD  123 

was  one  of  Wordsworth's  privileges,  which  he 
gratefully  records  in  the  ** Prelude.'' 

It  was  not  till  he  returned  to  Hawkshead  to 
spend  part  of  his  first  long  vacation  after  his 
freshman  year  at  Cambridge,  that  Wordsworth 
realized  how  much  he  owed  to  Anne  Tyson,  his 
*'dame";  she  had  been  almost  as  a  mother  to 
him  for  nearly  ten  years : 

* '  Glad  welcome  had  I,  with  some  tears,  perhaps, 
From  my  old  Dame,  so  kind  and  motherly, 
While  she  perused  me  with  a  parent's  pride." 

She  guided  his  willing  footsteps  through  the 
village.  The  face  of  every  neighbour  whom  he 
met  was  like  a  volume  to  him; 

"some  were  hailed 
Upon  the  road,  some  busy  at  their  work. 
Unceremonious  greetings  interchanged 
With  half  the  length  of  a  long  field  between." 

He  was  half  ashamed  to  salute  his  old  school- 
fellows, because  of  his  new  clothes.  On  seeing 
the  cottage  where  he  had  spent  his  boyhood,  its 
garden,  its  covered  channel,  whence  issued  the 
voice  of  an  imprisoned  mountain  brook,  he  felt 

*^what  a  thousand  hearts 
Have  felt,  and  every  man  alive  can  guess," 

and  with  thankfulness  he  laid  him  down  in  his 
accustomed  bed, 


124         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

*  ^  That  lowly  bed,  whence  I  had  heard  the  wind 
Roar  and  the  rain  beat  hard ;  where  I  so  oft 
Had  lain  awake  on  summer  nights  to  watch 
The  moon  in  splendour  couched  among  the 

leaves 
Of  a  tall  ash,  that  near  our  cottage  stood." 

We  saw  the  cottage,  a  humble,  whitewashed 
building,  stone  of  course,  and  therefore  not 
mean,  at  one  end  the  dwelling,  at  the  other  a 
barn.  We  were  told  that  the  front  bedroom  on 
the  right  as  one  faces  the  house  was  Words- 
worth's. A  shop  near  the  cottage  is  kept  by  a 
Tyson,  and  the  name  is  common  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  brook  still  flows  under  the  flag- 
stones, but  of  course  the  ash  is  gone,  and  the 
garden  too  is  hard  to  make  out. 

The  church  which  rises  above  the  village  and 
the  vale  looks  as  old  as  the  rocks  amid  which  it 
grew  and  which  it  greatly  resembles.  It  is  of 
the  exact  colour  of  the  outcrop  and  is  covered 
in  the  same  way  with  moss  and  lichen.  It  can 
hardly  have  been  much  lighter  in  Wordsworth's 
boyhood,  unless  it  then  was  whitewashed,  yet 
he  calls  it  snow-white: 

**I  saw  the  snow-white  church  upon  her  hill 
Sit  like  a  throned  lady,  sending  out 
A  gracious  look  all  over  her  domain." 

Yew-trees,  of  which  one  is  in  doubt  whether  to 
call  them  green  or  black,  carry  the  mystery  of 


HAWKSHEAD  125 

Nature  to  meet  the  mystery  of  Faith  at  the 
church  door.  The  tombstones  come  up  to  the 
very  walls,  like  sheep  in  search  of  shelter.  The 
tower  is  low  and  square.  The  nave  is  not  high, 
though  of  a  truly  English  length,  and  the  two 
side  aisles  are  lower  still.  Nothing  less  ob- 
trusive could  be  imagined,  nothing  less  like  the 
presumptuous  work  of  man.  This  is  not  a  vin- 
dication of  spiritual  claims  over  abject  Nature, 
but  a  gentle  reconciling  of  earth  and  heaven. 
The  interior  is  of  a  soft  warm  grey,  like  a 
dove's  breast.  A  faint  green  radiance  enters 
through  the  large  bays  and  touches  into  splen- 
dour the  monumental  brasses  of  the  Sandys 
family.  It  is  pleasant  to  picture  the  school- 
boys in  their  places  here,  of  old,  a  rustic  row, 
with  William  Wordsworth  at  the  end,  near  an 
open  window. 

The  last  glimpse  of  Hawkshead  which 
Wordsworth  gives  us  is  a  startling  admonition 
that  his  happy  boyhood  was  ended  and  a  time 
of  heavy  responsibility  at  hand.  The  summer 
of  1788  was  passing  away  in  light-hearted 
pleasures.  There  was  an  inner  falling-off  from 
his  allegiance  to  books  and  solitary  meditation. 
Feast  and  dance  and  public  revelry,  and  even 
the  very  garments  that  he  wore,  conspired  to 
depress  the  zeal  and  damp  the  yearnings  that 
had  once  been  his.    His  existence  as  a  poet  was 


126         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

threatened.  He  had  not  yet  acknowledged  his 
vocation,  even  to  himself,  but  by  all  the  fears 
and  joys  of  his  old  Hawkshead  life  he  was 
pledged  to  poesy.  Coming  home  at  dawn  from 
a  rural  dance,  his  head  cooled  by  the  dew,  his 
eyes  purged  by  the  memorable  pomp  of  rising 
morn,  his  ear  caressed  with  the  melody  of  birds, 
he  felt  the  full  force  of  the  contrast  between  the 
life  of  an  ordinary  man  and  the  life  of  a  child 
of  Nature: 

**My  heart  was  full;  I  made  no  vows,  but  vows 
"Were  then  made  for  me ;  bond  unknown  to  me 
Was   given,  that  I   should  be,   else   sinning 

greatly, 
A  dedicated  spirit." 

Eleven  years  later,  a  young  man  and  a  young 
woman,  somewhat  gaunt  from  excessive  exer- 
cise, walked  into  the  vale  of  Grasmere.  The 
young  man,  tall  and  angular,  wore  his  hair  flat 
over  his  temples,  after  the  Jacobin  fashion,  and 
was  dressed  partly  like  a  north-country  rustic 
and  partly  like  a  French  delegate  of  the  left. 
His  towering  brow,  his  long  high-bridged  nose, 
his  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  the  seams  of 
thought  and  resolution  about  his  mouth  gave 
him  the  look  of  one  who  carries  his  world  with 
him.  The  young  woman,  quick  in  her  motions, 
with  a  shy  but  penetrating  glance,  appeared  to 
be  in  closer  communication  with  her  surround- 


HAWKSHEAD  127 

ings.  They  stalked  into  the  sparse  settlement 
as  two  young  eagles,  or  other  birds  of  noble 
swiftness  and  strength,  might  wing  their  way 
into  a  peaceful  glen. 

They  came  seeking  peace  indeed.  Long  buf- 
feted by  storms  of  warring  empires,  driven  far 
astray  in  their  search  for  the  rare  and  pure 
atmosphere  of  untrammelled  thought,  still  lured 
from  their  purposes  by  ** chance  desires,''  often 
kept  apart  when  they  would  fain  have  dwelt 
together,  William  Wordsworth  and  his  sister 
Dorothy  were  coming  home  at  last,  to  dedicate 
their  lives  wholly  to  their  high  calling,  and  to 
repose 

** Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse.'' 

Wordsworth  once  or  twice  intimated  that  he 
would  have  found  a  soldier's  life  congenial. 
General  or  statesman,  he  might  have  been  one 
or  the  other,  as  must  be  evident  to  him  who 
will  read  his  treatise  on  the  Convention  of  Cin- 
tra  or  who  can  discern  the  audacity  and  the 
staunchness  of  his  lifelong  attitude  and  of 
every  line  he  wrote.  His  prose  especially  has 
the  toughness  and  the  hidden  fire  of  iron. 
There  was  in  him  an  aquiline  quality,  depth  of 
gaze,  strength  of  wing,  aloofness.  But  his 
power  of  command  had  never  been  put  to  the 
test;  his  endurance,  either  as  a  scholar  or  as  a 


128         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

man  of  action  had  never  been  strained  to  the  ut- 
termost, as  he  would  have  gloried  to  have  it 
strained.  Cambridge,  with  its  then  unref  ormed 
curriculum  and  its  somnolent  acquiescence  in 
idle  practices,  had  made  him  feel  that  he 

**was  not  for  that  hour 
Nor  for  that  place. ' ' 

His  life  at  the  university  seemed  to  him  a  **deep 
vacation. '*  For  though  he  could  not  without 
benefit  live  where  generations  of  illustrious 
men  had  moved,  could  not 

**  range  that  inclosure  old, 
That  garden  of  great  intellects,  undisturbed'^; 

though  he  **  laughed  with  Chaucer  in  the  haw- 
thorn shade ' ' ;  and  called  on  the  spirit  of 

**  Sweet  Spenser,  moving  through  his  clouded 
heaven 
With  the  moon's  beauty  and  the  moon's  soft 
pace"; 

and  seemed  to  see  Milton  bounding  before  him 
in  his  scholar's  dress, 

**A  boy,  no  better,  with  his  rosy  cheeks 
Angelical,  keen  eye,  courageous  look. 
And  conscious  step  of  purity  and  pride," 

he  had  a  vision  of  a  sterner  discipline  than 
Cambridge  enforced,  a  life  of 

**  strong  book-mindedness ;  and  over  all 
A  healthy  sound  simplicity  should  reign. 


HAWKSHEAD  129 

A  seemly  plainness,  name  it  what  you  will, 
Eepubliean  or  pious/' 

He  had  tramped  through  France  in  the  most 
hopeful  months  of  the  Revolution,  when  it  was 
not  yet  too  late  to  observe  the  misery  of  the 
peasantry  under  the  old  regime,  and  when  the 
original  glory  of  the  people's  cause  had  not 
been  obscured  through  panic  fear  of  invasion: 

**  Europe  at  that  time  was  thrilled  with  joy, 
France  standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours, 
And  human  nature  seeming  born  again.'* 

Going  again  to  France  after  graduation,  and 
living  there  for  more  than  a  year,  till  the  end  of 
1792,  he  had  come  into  closer  practical  contact 
with  the  Revolution  than  was  either  safe  for 
him  or  agreeable  to  his  family.  His  political 
opinions  and  religious  views  had  changed,  be- 
coming extremely  radical.  He  returned  to 
England,  disappointed,  it  is  true,  in  the  course 
the  Revolution  was  taking,  but  holding  grimly, 
nevertheless,  to  his  new  faiths. 

He  had  spent  the  next  two  years  precariously 
and  in  a  manner  unsatisfactory  to  his  family, 
publishing  two  obscure  little  volumes  of  poetry, 
wandering  from  place  to  place,  living  forlornly 
in  London,  teaching,  writing  for  newspapers, 
or  at  least  planning  to  set  up  a  monthly  maga- 
zine with  Mathews,  a  notorious  free-thinker. 


130         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Some  of  his  relations  meanwhile,  were  endeav- 
ouring to  persuade  him  to  take  orders  in  the 
Church  of  England !  But  as  his  nephew  Chris- 
topher, bishop  of  Lincoln,  reluctantly  admits, 
**At  this  period  he  entertained  little  reverence 
for  ancient  institutions  as  such;  he  felt  little 
sympathy  with  the  higher  classes  of  society. 
He  was  deeply  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the 
dignity  of  the  lower  orders,  and  their  suffer- 
ings; and  his  design  was  to  endeavour  to  re- 
cover for  them  the  rights  of  the  human  family 
and  the  franchises  of  human  brotherhood,  of 
which,  he  appears  to  have  thought,  they  had 
been  robbed  by  the  wealthy,  the  noble,  and  the 
few.  He  desired  to  impart  moral  grandeur  to 
poverty,  and  to  invest  the  objects  of  irrational 
and  inanimate  nature  with  a  beauty  and  grace 
of  which  it  seemed  to  him  they  had  been  strip- 
ped by  a  heartless  and  false  taste,  pretending 
to  the  title  of  delicacy  and  refinement.'^ 

Meanwhile  Dorothy  was  living  with  her  uncle 
Cookson,  a  canon  of  Windsor,  in  high  ecclesi- 
astical and  conservative  circles,  where  Wil- 
liam's aspirations  were  doubtless  deplored  as 
unchristian  and  un-English.  She  was  less  than 
two  years  younger  than  her  brother,  whom  she 
loved  with  an  ardour  which  long  separation 
could  not  damp.  A  small  legacy  left  to  Wil- 
liam by  Raisley  Calvert,  a  young  gentleman 


HAWKSHEAD  131 

whom  he  had  nursed  on  his  deathbed,  enabled 
the  brother  and  sister  to  keep  house  together  at 
last,  at  Racedown  in  Dorset,  for  about  two 
years.  Here  Coleridge  sought  them  out  and 
the  friendship  began  which  was  to  bring  a  life- 
long train  of  joy  and  sorrow  to  all  three  and 
bear  a  rich  fruitage  of  poetry.  Not  since  the 
unaccountable  apparition  of  a  score  of  great 
dramatic  poets  in  the  last  fifteen  years  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  had  there  been  in  England 
so  remarkable  an  instance  of  genius  nourishing 
genius.  The  union  of  Dorothy's  fine  perceptive 
gift,  her  brother's  power  of  transmitting  emo- 
tion in  musical  speech,  and  Coleridge 's  strength 
of  metaphysical  flight,  enhanced  all  three  per- 
sonalities, giving  them  larger  volume  and  new 
outlets. 

But  the  next  two  years,  productive  though 
they  were,  had  proved  too  distracting  to  the 
Wordsworths.  William's  play,  **The  Border- 
ers," was  rejected  by  the  managers  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre.  There  has  been,  ever  since,  a 
facile  tendency  to  applaud  their  verdict  and 
to  pass  judgment  on  **The  Borderers"  as  an 
unsuccessful  work  which  proved  its  author's 
lack  of  dramatic  instinct;  yet  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  name  a  stronger  English  tragedy  in 
verse,  written  since  the  death  of  Dryden,  if  we 
except  ** Manfred"   and   **The   Cenci."     The 


132         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

young  enthusiasts  had  occupied  for  a  year  Al- 
foxden,  a  country-house  near  Nether  Stowey,  in 
Somerset,  where  Coleridge  and  his  wife  lived 
in  a  cottage;  had  been  touched  though  not 
much  moved  by  the  waning  circle  of  Pantisoc- 
racy;  had  met  Lovell,  Burnett,  Charles  Lloyd, 
the  Southeys,  Thomas  Poole  the  liberal  tanner, 
Charles  Lamb,  Thelwall  the  persecuted  radi- 
cal, and  Joseph  Cottle  the  adventurous  Bristol 
printer.  The  Wordsworths  and  Coleridge  had 
taken  the  famous  walk  to  Lynton  and  the  Val- 
ley of  Rocks,  and  *^ Lyrical  Ballads''  had  been 
written.  William  and  Dorothy  had  visited  Tin- 
tern  Abbey.  The  young  men  had  been  under 
surveillance  by  a  government  spy,  on  suspicion 
that  they  were  plotting  to  aid  the  French.  The 
intellectual  ferment  had  proved  exhausting. 
The  Wordsworths  were  too  self-contained  to  en- 
joy the  intoxication  of  perpetual  talk  and  specu- 
lation, even  such  talk  as  Lamb's  and  such 
speculation  as  Coleridge's.  Political  events, 
England's  hostile  attitude  toward  France,  and 
the  French  invasion  of  Switzerland,  which 
seemed  to  him  liberty  preying  on  herself,  had 
depressed,  though  not  embittered,  William.  He 
and  his  sister  and  Coleridge  spent  the  autumn 
of  1798  and  the  winter  of  1798  and  1799  in  Ger- 
many; and  after  returning  thence,  more  unset- 
tled and  disheartened  than  ever,  William  and 


HAWKSHEAD  133 

Dorothy  visited  friends  and  relations  in  the 
north  of  England,  until  they  formed  the  happy 
project  of  returning  to  the  Lake  Country,  near 
which  they  were  born  and  where,  in  the  old 
Hawkshead  days,  he  had  felt  the  call  to  be  a 
poet. 

The  old  road  from  Rydal  to  Grasmere  runs 
over  the  edge  of  White  Moss  at  some  distance 
above  the  present  highway.  Just  before  it 
drops  to  the  lakeside  at  Town-end,  Grasmere, 
there  stands  a  cottage,  of  a  quakerish  grey 
colour,  modestly  retired  behind  a  stone  wall. 
The  mountain  comes  down  close  behind  it,  so 
that  one  might  step  from  the  second  floor  into 
the  steep  little  garden.  In  ancient  times  this 
house  was  an  inn,  with  the  sign  of  The  Dove 
and  Olive  Bough.  The  Wordsworths  entered  it 
**on  Saint  Thomas's  day,"  1799.  It  has  since 
been  called  Dove  Cottage.  They  came  at  a  time 
of  hard  frost  and  snow  and  with  scarcely  any 
household  goods.  In  Dorothy 's  Journal  we  can 
read  how  frugal  were  their  meals  and  how  rich 
their  banquets  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser. 

They  had  few  interruptions  at  first,  for  neigh- 
bours were  not  many,  and  they  were  almost  the 
only  educated  persons  within  miles.  For  rec- 
reation an  unlimited  expanse  of  open  fields  was 
theirs.  From  their  own  back  gate  they  could 
step  out  to  the  mighty  green  shoulder  of  Fair- 


134         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

field  and  walk  on  windy  ridges  to  Helvellyn, 
never  treading  aught  but  the  firmest  and  most 
elastic  turf.  An  endless  variety  of  landscape, 
from  desolate  tarn  and  perilous  crag  to  hamlet 
and  grove  and  pasture,  was  within  reach  for 
such  tireless  walkers.  And  by  day  and  night 
they  were  on  foot,  when  the  morning  studies 
were  over  and  the  simple  dinner.  The  outlook 
towards  the  lake  was  not  intercepted  by  build- 
ings and  broken  by  the  new  highway,  as  it  is 
now.  The  main  part  of  the  village  lay  half  a 
mile  further  up  the  vale,  where  stood  and  still 
stands,  by  the  murmuring  Rothay,  the  old  yel- 
low-grey church  with  the  square  tower.  By  a 
rare  intuition  of  fitness,  the  houses  are  not  only 
made  of  the  same  material  as  the  earth  that 
bears  them,  but  have  been  left  untouched,  for 
the  most  part,  by  paint  or  whitewash,  becom- 
ing, in  that  soft  climate,  beds  of  moss  and  mi- 
nute fern,  to  such  an  extent  that  one  can  scarce 
believe  they  are  the  work  of  human  hands. 
They  are  part  of  the  natural  landscape,  and 
one  can  feel  the  truth  of  the  poet's  lines  when, 
in  a  thankful  salutation  to  the  hospitable  vale, 
he  sings  of  its 

'*  church  and  cottages  of  mountain- stone 
Clustered  like  stars  some  few,  but  single  most, 
And  lurking  dimly  in  their  shy  retreats, 
Or  glancing  at  each  other  cheerful  looks. 
Like  separated  stars  with  clouds  between." 


HAWKSHEAD  135 

Except  for  the  very  limited  demands  of 
neighbourliness,  the  brother  and  sister  lived  at 
first  in  deep  seclusion.  But  their  door  was  open 
to  the  wide  world  of  Nature,  whose  infinite  de- 
tail called  them  constantly  forth.  No  two  hours 
of  the  day  are  alike  in  the  Lake  Country.  The 
showers  are  as  genial  as  the  sunshine,  with 
which  they  alternate  and  mingle  in  unending 
play.  A  tree  is  not  merely  a  tree  in  those  moist 
dales,  but  a  world  of  delicate  and  profuse  vege- 
tation; a  rock  not  merely  a  rock,  but  a  wilder- 
ness of  minute  flowering  plants.  Everything  is 
on  a  small  scale,  everything  perfect  of  its  kind. 
Men's  voices  are  low  and  sweet,  their  faces 
peaceful,  their  gestures  few  and  sedate.  The 
hills  are  companionable,  and  the  lakes  breathe 
repose.  There  was  no  longer  a  thought  of  per- 
manent change  or  separation  for  William  and 
Dorothy  Wordsworth.  They  had  found  their 
home. 

The  flowers  Dorothy  tended,  or  at  least  their 
true  descendants,  bloom  still  in  her  little  gar- 
den. The  orchard  bower  that  her  brother  made, 
overlooking  the  house  from  behind,  still  offers 
shelter,  and  the  stone  steps  his  hands  placed  in 
the  hillside  lead  to  it  still.  The  spring  for  which 
he  scooped  a  basin  in  the  rock  is  lisping  still 
the  secrets  of  earth  and  mirroring  the  open  joy 
of  heaven.    It  seems  to  ask,  **  Where  are  they 


136         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

who  understood  meV^  One  feels  nearer  to  the 
source  of  poetry  here  than  under  Weimar's 
chestnut  shade  or  by  *  *  Parthenope 's  dear 
tomb ' ' ;  so  brave  was  Wordsworth  in  his  deter- 
mination to  write  with  his  eye  upon  the  object. 
There  is  a  pleasing  fitness  in  the  position  of  this 
little  garden,  with  a  wild  mountain  at  its  back 
and  in  front  a  thoroughfare.  It  is  a  symbol  of 
the  union  between  the  glories  of  Nature  and  the 
homely  ways  of  men  which  Wordsworth  effect- 
ed in  his  poetry.  Behind  loom  Heron  Pike  and 
Rydal  Fell,  Seat  Sandal  and  Hart  Crag,  hiding 
the  deep  green  coves  between.  Grisedale  Pass 
with  its  ominous  tarn  leads  under  the  terrific 
cliffs  of  Striding  Edge  into  Patterdale,  at  the 
head  of  UUswater,  opening  to  foot-travel  the 
eastern  ranges  and  their  vales.  Kirkstone 
Pass,  a  road  for  giants,  and  High  Street,  the 
undeviating  line  on  which  Roman  legions 
marched  over  mountain  summits,  called,  not  in 
vain,  to  those  lovers  of  wide  spaces.  And  in 
front  their  own  lake  gleamed  tranquilly  and  the 
soft  outline  of  Silver  How  cut  the  evening  sky. 
Flowers  were  their  calendar  and  birds  their 
clocks.  They  could  tell  the  date  of  a  summer 
day  by  the  length  of  the  bracken  on  the  fells  or 
the  number  of  foxglove  fingers  on  a  stalk.  They 
were  wakened  by  *  *  the  first  cuckoo 's  melancholy 


HAWKSHEAD  137 

cry*'  and  warned  that  bedtime  had  come  by 
blackbirds  whistling  from  their  orchard  trees. 
In  this  bower  the  brightest  of  Wordsworth's 
lyrics  were  composed, — *^The  Sparrow's  Nest," 
**To  a  Butterfly,"  '*My  heart  leaps  up,"  ''To 
the  Daisy,"  and  ''The  Green  Linnet."  Here 
were  the  "fruit-tree  boughs";  this  is  the  "or- 
chard seat ' ' : 

"Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  spring's  unclouded  weather. 
In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat ! 
And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 
My  last  year's  friends  together." 

At  once,  on  coming  to  Dove  Cottage,  Words- 
worth, with  the  invaluable  help  of  Dorothy's 
finer  senses,  as  is  modestly  recorded  in  her 
Journal  and  gratefully  acknowledged  by  him  in 
the  famous  lines 

' '  She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears ; 
And  humble  cares,  and  delicate  fears ; 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears ; 
And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy, — " 

at  once  Wordsworth  addressed  himself  to 
grave  tasks.  He  began  the  "Prelude,"  the 
story  of  the  growth  of  a  poet's  mind,  with  the 
design  of  uniting  the  conflicting  currents  of  his 


138  DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

life  and  especially  of  subduing  the  storm  raised 
in  his  breast  by  the  Revolution.  He  composed 
the  two  poems  **MichaeP'  and  *^The  Leech- 
Gatherer,  or  Resolution  and  Independence," 
which  are  perhaps  more  characteristic  of  him  in 
subject,  tone,  and  style  than  any  other  of  his 
works.  He  composed  '*The  Brothers, '*  which 
seems  to  be  a  foretaste  of  **The  Excursion.'' 
These  poems  demanded  much  patient  labour. 
They  involved  serious  discussion  of  poetic  prin- 
ciples, which  depended  ultimately  on  a  theory  of 
human  duty  and  well-being.  For  these  and 
other  toils  that  succeeded  them,  the  winter 
nights  were  none  too  long,  and  the  entry  occurs 
often  in  Dorothy's  Journal,  ** William  tired 
himself  working  at  his  poem."  Their  tiny 
rooms  were  the  scene  of  long  deliberations. 
Longer  and  far  more  intense  were  the  talks 
when  Coleridge,  driven  by  the  hunger  of  his 
soul,  shouted  to  them  from  the  hill  at  midnight 
and  came  in  from  the  storm.  Then  tea  was 
made  and  bread  and  cheese  set  out,  and  Heli- 
conian festival  began. 

Coleridge  was  oppressed  not  only  by  his  pri- 
vate misfortunes,  but  by  the  weight  of  intel- 
lectual leadership.  The  opium  habit  was  fas- 
tening itself  upon  him ;  his  domestic  life,  chiefly 
through  his  own  lack  of  practical  sense  and  the 
commonplace  character  of  his  wife,  was  unsatis- 


HAWKSHEAD  139 

factory;  he  was  usually  in  need  of  money;  but 
nobler  anxieties  also  were  his.  He  hung  in  sus- 
pense between  patriotism  and  love  of  liberty. 
Affairs  in  France  were  going  wrong,  and  yet 
he  viewed  with  horror  the  hostility  of  England 
to  the  great  experiment  of  freedom.  He  had 
been  preaching  in  Unitarian  pulpits,  yet  ortho- 
doxy was  reasserting  its  claims  in  his  mind.  He 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  flood-gate  through 
which  a  stream  of  German  philosophy  and  criti- 
cism was  to  pour  into  England  and  America, 
and  he  hesitated.  He  and  Wordsworth  had 
worked  out  between  them  a  theory  of  poetry 
which  was  destined  to  determine  the  form  and 
the  substance  of  English  literature  in  prose 
and  verse  for  at  least  a  century  and  to  en- 
courage, in  all  the  languages  of  Europe,  what 
we  now  call  ** realism.'* 

Those  were  momentous  hours  spent  in  the 
little  upper  room  until  two  and  three  in  the 
morning,  by  that  sympathetic  dark-eyed  woman 
and  those  young  men,  the  one  dreamy  and  ex- 
citable, the  other  more  self -controlled  and  keep- 
ing his  visions  longer.  The  philosophy  and  the 
poetics  of  a  new  age  were  coming  to  birth  in 
their  minds.  It  was  the  watch-night  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  There  was  also  a  sup- 
pressed excitement  in  their  personal  relations. 
Coleridge   reverenced   Wordsworth,   who   was 


140         DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

deeply  anxious  about  him;  and  Dorothy,  as  is 
evident  from  unconscious  expressions  in  her 
Journal,  loved  Coleridge,  with  a  love  that  was 
two-thirds  pain. 

The  pious  hands  of  one  who  remembers  her 
and  her  brother  keep  the  little  rooms  tidy  still. 
** There  will  always  be  a  fire  in  the  kitchen,'* 
she  said  to  us,  **as  long  as  I  live,  directors  or 
no  directors,"  referring  to  the  trustees  of  the 
association  which  bought  the  cottage  some  years 
ago  as  a  permanent  memorial  of  its  illustrious 
occupants.  **My  half -kitchen  and  half -parlour 
fire,''  the  poet  called  it,  and  added,  **our  little 
bookcase  stood  on  one  side  of  the  fire."  This, 
however,  was  no  doubt  the  upper  room  facing 
the  orchard,  if  so  very  small  and  steep  a  piece 
of  ground  may  properly  be  called  an  orchard. 
Here  they  were  wont  to  sit 

**And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame, 
Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  undersong. ' ' 

Their  sailor  brother  John  came  to  visit  them 
at  Dove  Cottage.    He  was  a  poet  too, 

**Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse." 

After  his  departure  they  found  a  path  he  had 
worn,  pacing  back  and  forth,  sailor-fashion,  in 
the  wood  that  overhangs  the  lower  end  of  the 
lake,  half  a  mile  from  their  door.    They  named 


HAWKSHEAD  141 

it  John's  Grove,  and  held  it  as  a  sacred  place 
when  the  news  came  of  his  drowning  at  his  post 
when  the  great  ship  he  commanded  went  down, 
one  February  night  in  1805. 

All  but  the  central  mystery  of  poetry,  the 
elusive  something,  seems  within  our  grasp  when 
we  read  certain  lines  of  Dorothy's  Journal  in 
the  very  spots  they  describe: 

'*  Friday,  October  3,  1800— When  William 
and  I  returned  from  accompanying  Jones,  we 
met  an  old  man  almost  double.  His  face  was 
interesting.  He  was  of  Scotch  parents,  but  had 
been  in  the  army.  He  had  had  a  wife,  *a  good 
woman,  and  it  pleased  God  to  bless  us  with  ten 
children';  all  these  were  dead  but  one,  of  whom 
he  had  not  heard  for  many  years,  a  sailor.  His 
trade  was  to  gather  leeches,  but  now  leeches 
were  scarce,  and  he  had  not  strength  for  it. 
He  had  been  hurt  in  driving  a  cart,  his  leg 
broke,  his  body  driven  over,  his  skull  fractured ; 
he  felt  no  pain  till  he  recovered  from  his  first 
insensibility.  It  was  then  late  in  the  evening 
when  the  light  was  just  going  away." 

**May  7  (1802).  W.  wrote  the  Leech-Gather- 
er." According  to  his  practice,  he  had  given 
form  at  last  to  **  emotion  recollected  in  tran- 
quillity." The  first  observation,  the  original 
state  of  feeling,  and  possibly  too  the  great  leap 
of  imagination  by  which  the  old  man's  forti- 


142         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

tude  was  adopted  and  applied  in  one  of  the 
most  impressive  lessons  in  the  whole  range  of 
Wordsworth's  writings,  were  shared  between 
him  and  his  sister.  Let  him  who  would  know 
the  strengthening  power  of  poetry  study  **The 
Leech-Gatherer. ' ' 

**April  15  (1802).  When  we  were  in  the 
woods  below  Gowbarrow  Park  (on  Ullswater), 
we  saw  a  few  daffodils  close  to  the  water-side. 
...  As  we  went  along,  there  were  more  and 
yet  more;  and  at  last,  under  the  boughs  of  the 
trees,  we  saw  there  was  a  long  belt  of  them 
along  the  shore.  I  never  saw  daffodils  so 
beautiful.  They  grew  among  the  mossy  stones 
about  them:  some  rested  their  heads  on  these 
stones  as  on  a  pillow;  the  rest  tossed,  and 
reeled,  and  danced,  and  seemed  as  if  they  verily 
laughed  with  the  wind,  they  looked  so  gay  and 
glowing. '  * 

It  was  probably  not  till  1804  that  Words- 
worth composed  the  lines  beginning 

**I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud.'' 

They  are  full  of  the  dancing  joyousness  of  his 
dear  sister,  and  of  her  pensive  grace  as  well. 

Some  of  the  entries  in  1801  are  pregnant 
with  meaning  to  one  who  knows  the  country  and 
the  poems  and  something  of  the  story  of  the 
three  friends. 


HAWKSHEAD  143 

**Oct.  24--Went  to  Greenhead  Ghyll,  and  the 
Sheepfold." 

**Nov.  6 — ^Walked  with  Coleridge  to  Kes- 
wick/' A  matter  of  fifteen  miles,  over  Dun- 
mail  Eaise. 

**Nov.  18— William  walked  to  Rydal.  .  .  . 
The  lake  of  Grasmere  beautiful.  The  church 
an  image  of  peace;  he  wrote  some  lines  upon 
it.  .  .  .  The  mountains  indistinct;  the  lake 
calm,  and  partly  ruffled ;  a  sweet  sound  of  water 
falling  into  the  quiet  lake.  A  storm  gathering 
in  Easedale;  so  we  returned;  but  the  moon 
came  out,  and  opened  to  us  the  church  and  vil- 
lage. Helm  Crag  in  shade;  the  larger  moun- 
tains dappled  like  a  sky.*' 

As  an  example  of  exquisite  style,  we  may 
note  this  entry,  on  Nov.  24,  1801 : 

**Read  Chaucer.  We  walked  by  GelPs  cot- 
tage. As  we  were  going  along,  we  were  stopped 
at  once,  at  the  distance  perhaps  of  fifty  yards 
from  our  favourite  birch  tree :  it  was  yielding  to 
the  gust  of  wind  like  a  flying  sunshiny  shower : 
it  was  a  tree  in  shape,  with  stem  and  branches, 
but  it  was  like  a  spirit  of  water.  .  .  .  After  our 
return  William  read  Spenser  to  us,  and  then 
walked  to  John's  grove.    Went  to  meet  W." 

The  witchery  of  this  passage  is  hard  to  ac- 
count for;  we  have  here  a  fine  precision  of  the 


144         DREAMS  AND  MEMOEIES 

senses  and  a  rigorous  economy  of  words,  which 
can  hardly  escape  the  notice  of  every  reader; 
but  by  what  visible  or  audible  means  does  she 
impart  to  us  the  wistfulness  that  ventures  forth 
from  this  and  many  other  passages  of  her  Jour- 
nal? It  is  as  if  she  felt  that  she  was  happier 
than  she  knew:  she  could  wish  distinctly  for 
nothing  more  than  she  possessed;  yet  powers 
and  beauties  of  Nature  were  forever  challeng- 
ing her  understanding  and  her  gift  of  expres- 
sion. 

These  were  happy  years  for  Wordsworth,  no 
less  happy  than  the  period  of  early  married  life 
that  followed,  under  the  same  roof.  Nine  years, 
in  all,  he  dwelt  at  Dove  Cottage,  until  his  grow- 
ing family  required  a  larger  house.  He  was 
not  yet  famous,  and  in  comparison  with  the 
later  and  far  less  interesting  portion  of  his  life, 
few  visitors  came  to  take  note  of  how  he  looked 
and  talked  and  lived.  But  the  walls  of  Dove 
Cottage  tell  the  story,  in  their  voiceless  lan- 
guage. They  speak  of  plain  dress  and  frugal 
fare,  of  luxury  scorned  and  light-hearted  indif- 
ference to  comfort,  of  detachment  from  the 
world  and  its  judgments.  The  tell  of  deep  con- 
tentment and  spiritual  joy,  of  interest  in  little 
unconsidered  things,  of  high  converse  on 
weighty  matters.  They  whisper  of  kind  self- 
sacrificing  love.  They  plead  for  constancy  in 
holding  fast  to  the  noble  purposes  of  youth. 


SIENA:  A  SUMMER  IN  THE  MIDDLE 
AGES 

It  was  nine  o  'clock  on  a  spring  evening  when 
I  was  suddenly  projected  into  the  Middle  Ages. 
The  train  where  I  sat  alone  in  a  dimly  lighted 
compartment  had  been  climbing  hour  after  hour 
through  dark  mountains.  Then  it  stopped  out- 
side the  walls  of  Siena,  and  I  was  whirled  away 
in  a  carriage  up  a  steep  road,  through  one  of 
the  city  gates,  and  into  a  life  not  only  foreign 
but  quite  unmodern.  The  street,  with  many  a 
sudden  fling,  writhed  between  sombre  lines  of 
masonry,  pierced  at  rare  intervals  with  barred 
windows.  It  was  so  narrow  that  I  could  almost 
have  touched  the  habitations  on  either  hand. 
The  floor  was  paved  from  side  to  side  with 
smooth  blocks  of  stone.  In  this  confined  space, 
to  a  height  of  perhaps  twenty  feet,  the  cold  air 
vibrated  with  lamplight  and  with  the  laughter 
and  hum  of  a  crowd  of  sauntering  people, 
whom  the  cabman,  driving  furiously  and  crack- 
ing his  whip,  forced  back  against  the  houses. 
But  above  this  first  level  the  walls  vanished  in 
darkness,  until,  at  an  amazing  distance,  one 
could  see  the  sky  like  a  black  ribbon  with  silver 

145 


146         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

points  winding  along  between  two  lines  of  cor- 
nice that  seemed  as  far  away  as  the  stars  them- 
selves. 

For  several  days  after  this  bewildering  en- 
trance I  was  somewhat  ill  at  ease  and  had  a 
guilty  sense  of  intrusion,  which  persisted  even 
after  I  had  found  lodgings  with  a  dignified 
family  and  had  begun  to  accommodate  my  life 
to  theirs.  By  what  right  had  I  come  to  disturb 
the  respectable  peace  of  this  community,  re- 
mote, self-contained,  and  oblivious,  or  perhaps 
contemptuous,  of  the  new  civilization  of  which  I 
had  hitherto  been  proud  to  conceive  myself  a 
product!  I  earnestly  endeavoured  to  interpret 
the  lessons  written  by  the  centuries  upon  these 
pages  of  stone,  and  though  constantly  baffled, 
constantly  made  aware  that  I  had  not  even 
learned  the  alphabet,  yet  I  was  held  by  the  pre- 
science of  some  fine  discovery  awaiting  me,  a 
significance  to  be  disclosed  in  a  blessed  hour  of 
luck  or  effort.  Fortunately  I  kept  reminding 
myself  that  here  was  too  large  and  solid  a  vol- 
ume of  art  and  history  to  be  very  easily  under- 
stood in  all  its  relations,  and  that  I  must  not  be 
in  too  great  a  hurry  to  pluck  from  old  Siena  the 
elusive  secret  of  her  dark  face.  For  herein  lies 
a  touching  fact  about  old-world  cities,  that  each 
one  has  its  grey  mystery,  its  meaning,  valuable 
often  in  inverse  proportion  to  its  modern  pros- 


SIENA  147 

perity.  Before  leaving  Siena  I  acquired  a  very- 
distinct  idea  of  her  character  and  fancied  I  had 
discovered  her  secret.  The  process  was  simpli- 
fied by  the  ruthless  expedient  of  dismissing 
from  view  most  of  her  present  inhabitants  and 
letting  imagination  repeople  her  with  the  great 
dead.  They  it  was  who  built  her;  and  so  little 
of  her  ancient  aspect  has  she  lost  that  their 
spectres  look  more  at  home  in  her  than  living 
men  and  women. 

The  city,  enjoying  the  distinction,  happy  or 
unhappy  according  to  one 's  point  of  view,  of  not 
having  outgrown  its  ancient  limits,  contains 
about  thirty  thousand  inhabitants.  She  spreads 
out  like  a  triple-rayed  star,  on  three  long  ridges 
that  spring  from  a  common  centre.  Her 
streets  are  narrow  and  crooked,  but  marvel- 
lously well  paved  and  clean.  The  broad,  close- 
jointed  flagstones  are  carefully  swept  every 
night,  and  the  sweepings  are  carted  off  to  the 
fields.  There  is  scarcely  a  rod  of  level  ground 
within  her  walls,  and  many  of  the  shorter 
streets  are  mere  stairways.  The  houses  are 
very  high  and  grand,  many  of  them  former 
strongholds,  with  few  or  no  windows  on  the 
ground  floor;  and  here  and  there  a  tower  or 
battlemented  parapet  still  threatens  grimly. 
The  habitations  of  the  poor  have  generally  been 
at  one  time  the  palaces  of  powerful  and  wealthy 


148         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

families.  I  remember  being  stopped  once  and 
held  fast  to  the  spot  as  I  was  absent-mindedly 
climbing  an  alley  near  my*  lodgings,  by  the 
realization  that  the  stone-work  around  a  cer- 
tain window  before  me  was  of  a  solidity  and 
beauty  that  would  have  made  it  noteworthy  and 
singular  and  a  subject  of  more  than  local  pride 
in  any  American  city.  Though  too  remotely 
islanded  among  the  mountains  to  be  cursed  with 
steam  industry  or  railroad  commerce,  Siena  en- 
joys reasonable  prosperity.  She  lies  sprawled 
on  a  mountain-top,  thirteen-hundred  feet  above 
sea  level,  and  the  valleys  that  radiate  from  her 
precincts  yield  her  an  ample  tribute.  Her  pur- 
ple girdle  of  walls  hangs  loose  about  her  loins 
at  an  average  distance  of  an  eighth  of  a  mile 
from  the  undulating  body  of  tenements,  palaces, 
and  churches,  while  the  space  between  is  filled 
with  gardens  and  olive-groves  and  vineyards. 
Every  outgoing  road  drops  away  through  ver- 
durous hills  to  lower  levels.  To  the  west  rolls 
a  wooded  range  of  low  dumpling  mountains,  be- 
tween Siena  and  the  sea,  shutting  off  from  view 
the  deadly  Maremma,  or  fever-coast.  North- 
ward, miles  on  miles  away,  can  be  faintly  seen 
the  snowy  Apennines  about  Pistoia,  and  south- 
ward and  eastward  stretches,  far  below  our 
feet,  a  brown,  desolate-looking  plain  that 
seems  cursed  with  barrenness  and  fretted  by 


SIENA  149 

the  earthquake.  The  most  commanding  feature 
of  the  landscape  is  Monte  Amiata,  a  seemingly- 
bare  cone  of  volcanic  origin,  that  dominates  this 
southern  waste.  From  the  Porta  San  Marco, 
where  there  is  a  pleasant  terrace,  with  a  para- 
pet and  stone  benches,  the  difference  of  eleva- 
tion is  most  apparent,  and  you  look  away  to- 
wards Monte  Amiata  with  nothing  between  to 
catch  the  eye,  for  the  groves  and  fields  and 
roads  and  villages  are  so  far  below  that  you 
have  the  impression  of  being  quite  aloof  and  in 
a  different  world. 

There  is  another  more  commodious  terrace 
and  promenade  on  another  spur,  where  in  the 
sixteenth  century  a  foreign  despot  built  a  fort 
to  command  the  city.  In  Italy  nobody  stays  in- 
doors of  a  summer  evening,  and  as  I  grew  tired 
of  parading  up  and  down  the  esplanade  of  this 
fort,  where  every  person  in  Siena  goes  to  see 
everybody,  I  used  to  stroll  out  through  the  de- 
serted streets,  past  the  gate  at  the  Porta  San 
Marco  or  the  Porta  dei  Tufi,  to  watch  the  sun- 
set tints  glow  and  fade  and  blend  and  sever  on 
far-off  Monte  Amiata.  From  the  fruit  trees 
that  overhung  the  steep  path,  nightingales  sang 
their  antiphonies,  and  the  only  other  sound  was 
the  clangor  of  a  convent  bell  on  some  dark 
height  across  the  valley  or  the  voice  of  a  peas- 
ant child  helping  his  father  drive  out  the  tired 


150         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

yoke  oxen  to  pasture  for  the  night.  I  was  often 
tired  myself  after  my  lessons  with  the  patient 
priest  who  taught  me  Italian,  and  some  of  my 
weariness  came  from  wrestling  unconsciously 
with  the  question :    What  does  Siena  signify  1 

It  was  while  coming  home  from  one  of  these 
walks,  when  I  had  turned  my  back  on  the  soft 
evening  star  and  the  damp  meadows  aglow  with 
fireflies,  and  the  faint  blue  outline  of  Monte 
Amiata,  that  I  found  the  first  clue.  Far  up  the 
height  and  beyond  a  short  depression  I  had  yet 
to  cross,  rose  Siena,  her  bells  visibly  and  audi- 
bly ringing  to  vespers  and  her  lights  beginning 
to  come  out  one  by  one.  She  looked  so  solitary, 
so  secure,  so  self-contained.  She  looked  so  old 
and  yet  so  strong.  I  reflected  that  she  must 
have  worn  much  the  same  air  of  loneliness  six 
centuries  ago,  when  she  stood  aloof  from  all 
permanent  political  connections,  a  republic 
complete  in  herself.  Yes,  I  concluded,  she  is  a 
spirit  from  the  Middle  Ages,  unchanged  by 
time,  unspoilt  by  progress,  thinking  thoughts 
that  are  not  ours  and  that  we  cannot  half  under- 
stand, yet  holding  a  place  in  one's  imagination 
as  a  living  presence,  strange  and  dark  and 
fascinating.  Her  enchantment  is  not  merely  of 
Italy  and  springtime,  is  not  due  alone  to  the 
soft  air  or  to  the  melody  that  drops  from  those 
silvery  olive  boughs;  it  has  a  sterner  quality 


SIENA  151 

than  this  magic  of  the  senses,  and  holds  one  by 
the  memory  and  the  conscience.  Siena  lives 
still  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries, 
an  era  of  long-quenched  enthusiasms  and  long- 
stilled  pains,  an  era  of  woe  and  atrocious 
crime,  but  of  religious  aspiration  too  and  beauty 
both  inward  and  external,  an  era  of  eager  will- 
ingness to  believe  and  fierce  endeavour  to  at- 
tain. For  her  the  battle  of  Montaperti  was  but 
yesterday,  and  Columbus  is  not  yet  born,  nor 
Luther,  nor  Napoleon.  To  know  her  aright,  you 
must  go  back  six  hundred  years  and  so  far  as 
possible  think  and  feel  as  men  did  then.  You 
must  realize,  at  least  without  repugnance,  the 
faith  that  builded  her  inexpressibly  beautiful 
cathedral,  and  possess  enough  historical  sense 
to  be  able  to  make  allowance  for  the  credulity 
and  the  curiously  inconsistent  morality  of  its 
devoted  founders.  You  must  feel  the  throb  of 
the  civic  ambition  that  suggested  the  construc- 
tion of  that  splendid  town-hall,  and  spared  no 
pains  to  make  it  perfect,  even  though  you  stand 
aghast  at  the  unscrupulous  policies  and  the  piti- 
less measures  of  the  men  who  sat  in  its  council- 
chambers.  You  must  love  the  gentle  heart  and 
great  intelligence  of  Santa  Caterina,  and  not 
look  with  too  sceptical  an  eye  upon  the  legend 
of  her  miracles. 
From  that  hour  I  began  to  understand  and 


152         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

love  Siena.  *  Dolce  Siena'  her  people  call  her, 
having  in  mind  perhaps  the  life  of  undisturbed 
ease  which  many  of  them  lead.  But  even  in  our 
time  the  adjective  will  seem  inappropriate  to 
one  who  compares  her  dark  palaces  and  narrow 
streets  with  other  cities.  The  mere  fact  that 
she  is  girt  with  walls  suggests  defiance.  The 
very  wind  that  whines  at  all  hours  among  her 
chimney-tops  is  bitter  and  keen,  whether  laden 
with  African  sand  when  the  sirocco  blows,  in 
the  early  afternoon,  or  bearing  icy  particles 
from  the  northern  Appennines.  Sweet  or  soft 
or,  even  in  the  Scottish  sense,  douce  she  is  not 
and  never  was,  to  an  outsider,  either  in  spirit 
or  in  aspect.  But  no  doubt  the  eaglet  loves  its 
eery  as  much  as  the  meadow-lark  its  nest  in 
the  grass ;  and  the  pungent  odour  from  the  tan- 
neries of  Fonte  Branda  that  pervades  Siena 
may  well  be  a  sweet  savour  to  her  sons  and 
daughters.  There  are  no  darker  lines  of  Dante 
and  none  more  compressed  than  the  words  of 
Pia  Tolomei,  suggestive  of  slow  pining  away  or 
of  violent  murder  in  a  lonely  castle  on  a  fever- 
stricken  plain.  In  Purgatory  her  soul  craves 
earthly  remembrance,  and  gives  two  reasons 
why  she  should  not  be  forgotten :  *' Siena  made 
me ;  Maremma  unmade  me  " : 

Ricordati  di  me,  che  son  la  Pia; 
Siena  mi  f e ;  disf ecemi  Maremma. 


SIENA  153 

As  no  words  were  necessary  to  describe  the 
horrors  of  Maremma,  so  in  her  view  Siena  was 
too  fair,  too  sweet,  to  need  even  the  one  adjec- 
tive ^dolce*;  the  name  spoke  for  itself. 

In  so  far  as  the  face  of  Siena  appeared  to 
me  less  harsh  and  melancholy  and  took  on  some- 
thing of  the  sweetness  which  even  a  grim 
mother  shows  to  her  children,  I  felt  that  I  was 
making  progress.  When  I  could  truly  and  from 
my  heart  call  her  **dolce  Siena,"  my  lesson,  I 
was  persuaded,  would  be  learned.  And  so  I 
somewhat  consciously,  though  in  perfect  good 
faith,  subjected  myself  to  her  enchantment,  to 
the  magic  spell  that  descended  from  her  belfries 
at  morning  mass  and  even-song,  to  the  charm 
that  rustled  through  her  gardens  when  the 
noonday  sunshine  quivered  against  their  ter- 
races and  stirred  the  olive-roots  in  their  rich 
volcanic  soil  and  put  to  sleep  the  lizards  on 
their  walls. 

The  Middle  Ages  were  a  period  of  uncon- 
scious and  closely  limited  self-development,  of 
little  breadth,  but  in  some  respects  of  great 
height.  It  will  help  us  to  understand  the  age 
if  we  study  sympathetically  the  history  of  a 
single  city  which  also  was  self-contained  and 
characterized  at  times  by  very  lofty  aims.  We 
have  extraordinary  facilities  for  studying  the 
life  of  Siena  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 


154         DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

turies.  In  the  frowning  Piccolomini  palace, 
now  a  public  building,  are  stored  in  chronologi- 
cal array  thousands  of  parchments  and  other 
documents  relating  to  the  history  of  the  repub- 
lic. Siena  has  been  fortunate  in  the  quality  of 
the  books,  particularly  the  English  books,  that 
have  been  written  about  her ;  but  more  impres- 
sive than  manuscript  or  print  are  her  memo- 
rials in  brick  and  stone.  From  them  one  can 
vividly  perceive  what  were  three  chief  elements 
of  her  greatness:  first,  her  civic  pride,  as  il- 
lustrated in  the  Campo  or  open  square,  with  its 
Palazzo  Pubblico  or  town  hall;  secondly,  her 
artistic  sense,  as  embodied  in  the  cathedral; 
thirdly,  her  power  of  faith  and  intellect,  as  per- 
sonified in  Saint  Catherine,  whose  house  may 
still  be  seen.  These  three  centres  are  the  ob- 
jects which  focus  every  observer's  attention. 

Almost  constantly,  from  the  fall  of  the  Ro- 
man Empire  to  the  sixteenth  century,  Siena 
governed  herself.  The  greater  part  of  the 
twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  was  filled  with 
wars  against  neighbouring  towns,  especially 
Perugia  and  Florence,  against  feudal  lords  in 
the  surrounding  country,  and  against  Guelph, 
i.e..  Papal,  leagues.  In  the  intervals  her  mer- 
chants travelled  far,  and,  by  enriching  them- 
selves, strengthened  the  middle  or  mercantile 
cUss  at  home  to  moh  an  extent  that  she  was 


SIENA  155 

able  to  maintain  at  least  the  form  of  a  republic 
in  an  age  when  monarchy  was  gaining  ground 
elsewhere.  Though  not  always  victorious  in 
war,  her  internal  affairs  were  so  democratically 
managed  and  her  foreign  policy  was  so  constant 
that  in  the  main  she  prospered,  and  her  borders 
were  steadily  enlarged  until  they  embraced  a 
wide  circuit  of  dependent  territory  and  many 
conquered  towns  and  villages.  They  brought 
her  their  trade ;  she  paid  dearly  for  the  advan- 
tage by  defending  them  in  war.  They  laid 
tribute  at  her  feet  and  sent  envoys  to  swell  her 
processions  at  the  local  festival  on  Assumption 
Day ;  she  shed  over  them  the  lustre  of  her  glory. 
Though  various  oligarchies,  more  or  less  dis- 
guised, interrupted  the  democratic  rule  and 
there  was  frequent  tumult  and  bloodshed,  public 
interest,  as  a  general  thing  and  to  a  quite  un- 
common degree,  was  paramount  to  private  con- 
siderations. 

Through  all  the  strife  and  tumult  of  the 
twelfth  century  there  are  noticeable  a  growing 
sense  of  unity  and  a  desire  for  peace  in  which 
to  adorn  the  city.  Nevertheless,  we  must  re- 
member that  art,  which  is  so  important  for  the 
future,  not  infrequently  holds  a  subordinate 
place  at  the  time  it  is  being  created.  Little  op- 
portunity for  artistic  work  was  found  in  the 
early  years  of  the  thirteenth  century.  We  know, 


156         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

however,  that  in  spite  of  much  confusion  and 
barbarism  a  high  civilization  was  being  formed, 
that  men  of  learning  and  piety  were  becoming 
more  prominent  in  council,  that  private  wealth 
was  contributing  to  the  spread  of  good  taste 
while  not  yet  encroaching  on  public  rights,  and 
that  a  spirit  of  enterprise  gradually  pervaded 
all  ranks  of  society.  The  poor  were  indepen- 
dent and  quick-witted;  the  middle  classes  were 
possessed  of  a  love  of  adventure  and  a  zeal  for 
art  quite  unusual  in  that  order  of  society,  and 
the  aristocracy  were  to  a  large  extent  devout, 
generous,  and  public-minded.  The  Sienese 
were  growing  in  material  prosperity  and  moral 
dignity.  They  contemplated  building  a  new  ca- 
thedral or  remodelling  an  old  structure,  on  the 
site  where,  according  to  tradition,  one  Chris- 
tian church  had  followed  another  since  the  first, 
which  superseded  a  temple  of  Minerva.  The 
work  progressed  slowly  from  about  1245,  but 
it  was  still  undecided  in  1259  to  what  extent  it 
should  be  prosecuted.  The  matter  was  placed 
in  the  hands  of  a  committee  to  report,  but  their 
deliberations  were  interrupted  by  an  event 
which  gave  the  scheme  a  great  forward  impul- 
sion, causing  the  citizens  to  enlarge  their  views 
and  multiply  expenditures. 

This  was  the  notable  victory  of  Siena  over 
her  ancient  rival,  Florence,  at  the  battle  of 


SIENA  157 

Montaperti,  in  1260.  The  field  of  the  fight  lay 
only  six  miles  below  in  the  valley,  and  the  vic- 
tors came  home  after  **the  rout  and  the  great 
carnage  that  coloured  the  Arbia  red"  still  hot 
from  sword-wielding.  To  go  into  the  causes  of 
this  strife  would  be  to  discuss  the  whole  story 
of  the  wars  of  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  factions 
throughout  Italy  and  would  show  how  desper- 
ate were  the  passions  engaged  and  how  large 
was  the  stake  for  which  Siena  was  playing. 
Her  joy  in  victory  was  measured  by  the  danger 
she  had  escaped,  danger  of  total  extinction. 
The  army  had  gone  out  in  the  name  of  the 
Virgin,  and  prayers  had  been  offered  all  day 
long  and  vows  made  in  case  of  victory.  For 
nearly  a  week  the  city  returned  thanks.  Two 
captains  among  the  honoured  dead  were  the 
first  persons  entombed  in  the  cathedral,  and  the 
tall  masts  which  lean  against  its  central  pillars 
are  said  to  be  the  poles  that  bore  the  standards 
of  Florence  and  Siena  in  the  fight.  Then  the 
Sienese  set  to  work  with  enlarged  hope  and 
fresh  consecration  to  build  a  temple  worthy  of 
their  greatness  and  expressive  of  their  pious 
gratitude. 

Referring  to  the  ordinances  passed  even  be- 
fore 1260,  respecting  what  they  simply  and  sig- 
nificantly called  *Hhe  work,"  Charles  Eliot 
Norton  says:    ** These  provisions,  standing  as 


158         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

they  do  at  the  very  head  of  the  ancient  Sienese 
code,  clearly  exhibit  the  popular  and  municipal 
character  of  the  work,  and  indicate  the  feeling 
with  which  it  was  regarded  as  a  sacred  charge, 
the  chief  of  the  concerns  of  the  commune/' 
They  employed  Niccola  Pisano  to  carve  the 
marble  pulpit,  which  is  as  beautiful  today  as 
ever,  and  is  perhaps  ^*the  supreme  expression 
of  mediaeval  stone-cutting,  as  distinct  from 
sculpture  proper/'  Between  1260  and  1263 
they  finished  the  roof  and  cupola.  By  1284  the 
facade  was  completed.  They  expended  vast 
stores  of  ingenuity  and  wealth  in  adding  artis- 
tic treasures  to  the  great  structure  which  now 
crowned  with  glittering  marble  the  highest 
point  in  the  city. 

Even  amid  these  labours  of  the  architect,  the 
sculptor,  the  painter,  the  mosaic-maker,  the 
wood-carver,  the  mason,  and  the  carpenter,  it 
was  decided  that  the  city  should  have  a  civic  as 
well  as  a  religious  centre  level  with  her  proud 
heart.  In  1194  the  town-council  had  laid  out 
and  paved  the  ample  slope  called  the  Campo, 
which  has  ever  since  been  the  field  of  real  or 
mimic  frays,  the  debating-ground  of  politics, 
the  hearth  of  popular  liberty.  And  in  1288  this 
busy  little  race  commenced  their  public  palace 
or  town-hall,  which  stands  yet,  a  memorial  of 
popular  dignity,  both  sumptuous  and  graceful, 


SIENA  159 

less  ornate,  but  perhaps  even  more  elegant  than 
the  hotels  de  ville  of  Flanders.  The  construc- 
tion of  this  building,  including  the  erection  of 
the  belfry,  known  as  the  Mangia  tower,  covered 
sixty-one  years,  till  1349.  Few  communities 
have  ever  done  so  much  excellent  building  in  so 
short  a  time  in  proportion  to  their  population 
as  Siena  accomplished  between  1245  and  1349. 
The  town-hall  is  of  dark  red  brick,  the  colour  of 
which  has  toned  down  into  harmonious  softness, 
varying  in  shade  from  rich  purple  to  delicate 
pink.  It  is  four  stories  high  in  the  centre  and 
three  in  the  wings,  with  battlements  and  a 
slightly  concave  front,  pierced  by  long  pointed 
windows.  At  its  side  soars  the  Mangia  to  an 
amazing  height,  a  square,  slender,  almost  un- 
broken brick  shaft,  swelling  at  the  top  into  an 
intricate  structure  of  white  stone,  with  project- 
ing galleries.  The  spouts  are  made  in  the  shape 
of  wolves,  to  represent  the  traditional  animal 
that  nourished  Remus,  the  reputed  founder  of 
Siena.  The  tower  looks  like  a  half  unfolded 
white  tulip  on  a  very  long  dark  stalk,  and  seems 
every  minute  about  to  nod  in  the  breeze.  The 
council-chambers  in  the  town-hall  are  adorned 
with  frescoes,  one  series  of  which  is  remarkable 
as  setting  forth  and  contrasting  the  results  of 
good  and  bad  government.  The  subject  being 
secular,  the  details  are  thoroughly  realistic,  and 


160         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

we  have  here,  no  doubt,  representations  of  ac- 
tual scenes  in  the  fourteenth  century  and  con- 
temporary portraits.  Among  the  faces  there  is 
a  refreshingly  wide  variety  and  unusual  free- 
dom from  conventionality,  and  withal  a  strik- 
ing resemblance  of  general  type  to  the  people 
who  walk  Siena's  streets  today.  These  council- 
chambers  are  still  in  use,  and  the  big  bell  in  the 
Mangia  still  tolls  alarms  and  strikes  the  hours. 

While  the  town-hall  was  rising,  the  builders 
of  the  cathedral  were  engaged  in  adding  a  sec- 
ond church  to  serve  as  a  baptistery,  and  this 
they  were  sinking  into  the  steep  hillside  behind 
and  beneath  the  choir  of  the  main  structure. 
The  cost  was  enormous,  but  people  constantly 
made  voluntary  offerings,  and  the  republic  still 
voted  supplies.  In  1333,  for  instance,  Messer 
Guccio  and  his  wife  Mina  are  recorded  as  giv- 
ing up  themselves  and  all  their  property  for  the 
advancement  of  the  work  and  receiving  in  re- 
turn a  mere  annuity  and  the  promise  of  burial. 
This  was  the  period  of  the  city's  greatest 
wealth ;  the  ambition  of  her  citizens  was  so  far 
from  being  satisfied  that  in  1339  it  was  re- 
solved, by  a  vote  of  212  to  132,  that  the  cathe- 
dral as  then  completed,  and  as  it  now  stands  es- 
sentially, should  be  transformed  into  the  mere 
transept  of  a  greater  edifice,  whose  nave  was  to 
run  north  and  south  along  the  crest  of  the  ridge. 


SIENA  161 

The  alteration  would  have  about  trebled  the 
size  of  the  structure.  No  one  who  has  not  stood 
on  the  ground  can  have  any  conception  of  the 
stupendousness  of  this  new  design.  The  Sie- 
nese  would  have  possessed,  had  it  been  realized, 
the  largest  cathedral  south  of  the  Alps.  The 
master  workman  set  out  immediately  to  buy  the 
houses  that  occupied  the  ridge  of  land  in  ques- 
tion, and  a  community  of  nuns  gave  up  some  of 
their  property  that  stood  in  the  way.  Shovel 
and  derrick,  hammer  and  trowel  were  put  in 
action  again,  and  by  1348  the  side  and  end 
walls  had  risen  to  a  sublime  and  impressive 
height. 

They  stand  there  still,  but  in  sad  incomplete- 
ness. For  in  that  year  an  awful  calamity  fell 
upon  Siena  and  she  had  passed  the  climax  of 
her  glory.  The  summer  before,  there  had  been 
unusual  mortality  in  seaboard  towns ;  and  sail- 
ors arriving  in  Genoa  and  Venice  from  the  far 
East  brought  fragmentary  but  all  too  certain 
news  of  an  approaching  doom.  Many  diseases 
vaguely  called  the  Plague  had  devastated  Eu- 
rope from  time  to  time  in  the  past,  but  as  the 
spring  of  1348  drew  towards  its  close,  men  be- 
came aware  that  the  scourge  had  fallen  upon 
them  in  a  more  appalling  shape  than  ever  be- 
fore. It  was  what  is  known  as  the  Black  Death. 
The  population  is  variously  estimated  to  have 


162         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

been  at  that  time  from  one  hundred  thousand  to 
two  hundred  thousand.  The  smaller  figure 
seems  more  nearly  correct,  for  it  is  difficult  to 
see  how  even  so  many  could  have  been  lodged 
within  the  city  wall,  though  an  Italian  town, 
with  streets  only  a  few  yards  wide  and  houses 
four  and  five  stories  high,  is  surprisingly  capa- 
cious. There  were  enough,  at  all  events,  to  fur- 
nish in  one  brief  summer  eighty  thousand  vic- 
tims. Men  dropped  dead  while  talking,  walk- 
ing, eating,  and  there  were  none  to  bury  them. 
There  came  a  rapid  swelling  and  discolouration 
at  groin  and  shoulder,  and  while  the  sufferer 
was  wondering  whether  he  were  taken,  behold 
he  was  gone. 

Siena  never  recovered  from  this  disaster. 
The  work  on  the  cathedral  ceased.  There  was 
neither  strength  nor  wealth  nor  courage  left 
to  trim  another  stone.  In  sunshine  and  dark- 
ness, in  rain  and  wind  and  snow,  those  gigantic 
arches  stand  out  far  above  the  slumbering 
town,  as  they  have  stood  through  the  despotism, 
anarchy,  and  apathy  of  five  centuries,  a  mute 
witness  to  mediaeval  faith  and  daring. 

Churches  do  not  make  saints  nor  cities 
heroes.  Love  alone  sanctifies  a  fane,  and  the 
greatest  art,  whether  ecclesiastic  or  civil,  is 
only  a  poor  and  inadequate  tribute  to  love.  It 
is  the  glory  of  Siena  not  only  that  her  laws  and 


SIENA  163 

her  wars  and  her  great  buildings  were  the  ex- 
pression of  a  general  civic  magnanimity,  but 
that  she  produced  several  of  the  most  eminent 
personalities  in  Italian  history  and  one  who 
ranks  among  the  highest  of  those  who  have  died 
for  love.  Catherine  Benincasa  outshines  the 
rest  of  Siena  *s  sons  and  daughters,  though  some 
of  their  names  are  bright  enough  to  render  the 
little  mountain  town  illustrious, — the  Piccolo- 
mini,  one  of  whom  filled  the  papal  throne  and 
another  was  a  great  general  in  the  Thirty  Years 
War;  the  two  Sozzini,  to  whom  Socinian  the- 
ology owes  its  name  and  some  of  its  conquests 
in  the  Reformation;  Sallustio  Bandini,  who  is 
known  as  the  father  of  free  trade,  a  claim  which 
if  just,  gives  him  rank  with  the  Sozzini  for 
moral  courage  and  intellectual  enterprise;  the 
mediaeval  philanthropist  Bernardo  Tolomei; 
the  revivalist  San  Bernardino;  Provenzano 
Salvani,  whom  Dante  immortalized  because  to 
rescue  a  friend  from  captivity  he,  the  leading 
citizen  of  the  republic,  humbled  himself  to  beg 
alms  in  the  Campo;  the  artists  Beccafumi  and 
Baldassare  Peruzzi. 

Catherine  was  born  in  1347,  the  year  before 
the  great  plague.  The  house  and  shop  of  her 
father,  a  dyer  and  fuller,  still  exist,  in  a  deep 
ravine  between  two  of  the  three  spurs  on  which 
the  town  is  built.    This  quarter,  of  the  Fonte 


164         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Branda,  has  always  been  the  most  densely  pop- 
ulated. Owing  to  the  existence  there  of  an 
abundant  flow  of  water,  issuing  in  a  stone  tank 
with  arcaded  borders,  it  is  the  home  of  tanners, 
dyers,  fullers,  and  laundresses.  Catherine  was 
one  of  twenty-five  children  born  to  her  parents, 
and  it  may  well  be  supposed  that  among  so 
many,  and  especially  in  the  lean  years  that  fol- 
lowed the  plague,  she  grew  along  in  unusual 
freedom  and  the  mental  solitude  which  is  often 
the  lot  of  children  in  large  families.  One  day 
when  she  was  seven  years  old,  as  she  and  her 
little  brother  Stephen  were  descending  a  steep 
street  that  leads  into  their  quarter  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  cathedral,  she  stopped  at  an 
abrupt  turn  and  fell  on  her  knees  before  a  blank 
wall.  The  boy  came  back  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  she  said  she  had  beheld  Christ  on 
his  throne,  with  St.  Peter,  St.  John,  and  St. 
Paul.  That  spot  now  is  holy  ground,  and  on 
the  wall  is  painted  a  time-stained  fresco  of  her 
vision.  I  remember  seeing  a  school-girl  kneel- 
ing before  it  early  on  a  spring  morning  and  try- 
ing to  make  her  smaller  brother  say  his  prayers. 
Vision  followed  vision.  When  she  was  eight 
years  old  she  already  aspired  to  consecrate  her- 
self to  Christ.  Not  finding  in  her  crowded  home 
the  solitude  she  craved  and  considered  neces- 
sary to  holy  living,  she  slipped  away,  one  morn- 


SIENA  165 

ing,  through  a  city  gate  that  was  near  the  house 
of  a  married  sister,  and  found  herself,  perhaps 
for  the  first  time,  alone  in  the  country.  At  last 
she  had  discovered  the  desert  where  a  saintly 
life  might  be  led,  and  no  doubt  she  fancied  it 
was  the  Thebai'd,  where  the  hermits  had  dwelt 
whose  legends  filled  her  imagination.  By  the 
wayside  she  found  a  little  cave,  hollowed  out  in 
the  clay  by  rain,  and  there,  having  joyfully  en- 
tered, she  prayed  and  saw  visions,  till  hunger 
and  fear  drove  her  home.  In  the  fourteenth 
century,  such  experiences,  even  when  they  oc- 
curred in  the  delicate  organizations  of  brood- 
ing children,  were  regarded  with  more  awe  than 
dread.  Mortification  of  the  body,  fasting, 
scourging,  watching,  praying,  seeing  visions 
and  dreaming  dreams — it  was  in  these  mainly 
that  a  ** religious"  life  consisted,  and  this  kind 
of  religion  was  not  rare.  Catherine,  when  still 
a  mere  child,  began  to  practice  the  austerities 
which  she  was  to  endure  and  increase  until  her 
death.  She  reduced  her  food  and  sleep  to  a 
dangerous  and  abnormal  limit  and  forsook  all 
forms  of  childish  amusement. 

The  central  idea  of  mysticism  is  desire  for 
union  with  God, — not  only  in  a  world  to  come, 
but  here  and  now.  The  aspirants  after  perfec- 
tion must  mortify  the  senses  and  crucify  earth- 
ly affection,  to  the  end  that  the  soul,  free  and 


166         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

unhampered,  may  seek  repose  in  God,  who  is 
a  spirit.  Catherine  of  Siena  is  one  of  those  in 
whom  the  mystical  idea  in  its  greatest  purity  is 
found  in  connection  with  a  strong,  generously 
endowed  intellect  and  a  physical  constitution 
originally  healthy.  She  was  no  ignorant  re- 
cluse, with  wasted  will  and  untrained  powers 
of  judgment,  but  a  great  personage,  with  large 
capacities,  which  she  narrowed  with  cruel  re- 
straint, it  is  true,  but  which  would  have  been  of 
extraordinary  usefulness  in  any  sphere,  and 
which  indeed  she  did  finally  turn  to  account  in 
affairs  of  great  political  moment. 

Her  biographer,  Fra  Raimondo,  who  was  also 
her  confessor,  relates  that  at  a  very  tender  age 
she  had  a  vision  of  Christ,  whom  she  ardently 
implored  to  be  her  spouse,  dedicating  herself  to 
him  with  a  vow  of  perpetual  virginity.  From 
this  time  her  austerities  increased.  Raimondo 
says:  **She  granted  herself  but  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  of  sleep  daily.  During  her  repast,  if 
the  little  food  she  took  could  be  called  by  that 
name,  she  prayed  and  meditated  on  what  our 
Lord  had  taught  her. '  *  Her  bed  was  an  uncov- 
ered plank,  with  a  stone  for  a  pillow;  and  this 
hard  resting-place  I  have  myself  seen.  Her 
heaviest  cross  at  this  period — she  was  not  yet 
twelve — ^was  the  importunity  of  her  mother, 
who  naturally  endeavoured  to  persuade  or  force 


SIENA  167 

her  to  follow  a  more  healthy  mode  of  life.  On 
discovering  how  the  child  spent  her  nights,  her 
mother  took  her  into  her  own  bed,  but  Cather- 
ine, for  a  long  time  unobserved,  slipped  the 
penitential  plank  under  the  sheet  on  her  side  of 
the  couch.  When  she  reached  her  thirteenth 
year,  there  came  the  hardest  trial  of  all.  Her 
family  then  resolved  to  break  what  they  called 
her  childish  obstination,  and  to  this  end  dis- 
missed their  servant  and  compelled  Catherine 
to  perform  the  hardest  menial  tasks.  But  we 
are  told  that  **the  Holy  Ghost  inspired  Cather- 
ine with  a  means  of  supporting  affronts  and  of 
maintaining  in  every  crisis  the  joy  and  peace 
of  her  soul.  She  imagined  that  her  father  rep- 
resented our  divine  Saviour,  and  that  her  moth- 
er represented  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Her  broth- 
ers and  other  relatives  were  the  apostles  and 
disciples  of  our  Lord  to  her;  hence  she  served 
them  with  a  delight  and  ardour  that  astonished 
everyone ;  this  means  assisted  her  to  enjoy  her 
divine  spouse,  whom  she  believed  she  was  serv- 
ing ;  the  kitchen  became  a  sanctuary  to  her,  and 
when  she  seated  herself  at  table  she  nourished 
her  soul  with  the  presence  of  the  Saviour.'' 

One  day  while  she  was  praying  alone,  her 
father  entered  the  room  and  perceived  a  snow- 
white  dove  seated  on  her  head.  From  this  time 
forth  he  favoured  her  designs.     The  chief  of 


168         DREAMS  AND  MEMOEIES 

these  were  that  she  might  enter  a  religious  or- 
der and  that  she  might  be  allowed  to  give  to 
the  poor  her  portion  of  the  family  means.  Ac- 
cordingly she  became  a  member  of  the  third 
order  of  St.  Dominic,  though  she  never  regular- 
ly took  the  three  vows  of  chastity,  poverty,  and 
obedience,  which  she  had  ever  observed  unbid- 
den. She  did  not  enter  a  convent;  her  scourg- 
ings  and  fasting  took  place  at  home  and  did  not 
interrupt  the  performance  of  homely  duties. 
Although  not  permitted  to  inhabit  a  cell,  as  she 
desired,  she  yet  maintained  in  her  heart  a  soli- 
tary place  where  she  might  be  alone  with 
Christ.  It  was  characteristic  of  her  to  pray, 
as  she  did,  that  her  family  might  be  reduced  to 
poverty;  she  loved  her  parents  and  her  broth- 
ers and  sisters  better  than  they  loved  them- 
selves, and  knew  that  the  soul  is  worth  more 
than  the  body.  Raimondo  narrates  her  mysti- 
cal espousal  with  Christ  and  Christ 's  giving  her 
a  ring  containing  a  diamond  surrounded  with 
four  pearls:  **The  ring  remained  on  Cather- 
ine's finger,''  he  exclaims;  **she  saw  it,  but  it 
was  invisible  to  others" — an  admission  not 
without  value  to  criticism.  Christ  frequently 
appeared  to  her  in  the  guise  of  a  beggar,  and 
the  alms  she  gave  he  returned  to  her  afterwards 
in  visions,  but  glorified  and  increased  in  worth. 
Her  theology  appears  to  have  been  simple; 


SIENA  169 

God,  conceived  as  the  creator  and  ruler  of  the 
universe  or  as  moral  law,  was  completely 
merged  in  the  idea  of  Christ,  a  serene  yet  ten- 
derly compassionate  being,  mysteriously  joyful, 
yet  suffering  and  requiring  his  chosen  ones  to 
suffer  with  him  in  order  that  he  might  console 
them.  Her  relation  to  him  was  that  of  a  humble 
maid  to  an  exalted  lover,  and  she  employs  with 
astonishing  freedom  the  imagery  of  romantic 
love  in  describing  the  stages  of  her  approach  to 
ecstatic  union  with  him.  Of  Jesus  as  he  is  his- 
torically depicted  she  seems  almost  unaware. 

Thus  much  for  her  inner  life,  and  if  its  ideals 
seem  inacceptable  and  some  of  its  alleged 
events  impossible  either  to  our  reason  or  to  our 
moral  sense,  we  must  remember  that  union  with 
Christ  has,  in  one  form  or  another,  always  been 
one  of  the  noblest  Christian  hopes  and  that  her 
miraculous  visions,  though  the  fact  of  her  hav- 
ing them  may  have  been  due  to  hunger,  sleep- 
lessness, and  disease,  were  yet  in  their  charac- 
ter signs  of  pure  religious  enthusiasm.  The 
world  was  very  dark.  Ignorance  was  an  asset 
of  the  Church ;  cruelty  her  instrument.  Society 
had  been  brought  almost  to  anarchy  by  war  and 
pestilence,  and  men  were  more  earnest  about 
the  need  for  reconstruction  than  scrupulous 
about  means.  Believe !  Believe  or  perish !  was 
the  cry  in  pulpit  and  street.     Can  we  wonder 


170         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

that  the  best  people  were  often  the  most  credu- 
lous and  that  some  of  the  greatest  idealists  of 
the  age  were  the  most  resolutely  cruel  in  forc- 
ing upon  others  what  they  thought  would  bring 
order  and  peace?  Credulous  though  Catherine 
was,  love  moved  her;  and  so  in  all  that  teneb- 
rous world  she  bore  aloft  some  light,  however 
smoky.  She  was  busily  active  even  from  child- 
hood in  visiting  and  nursing  the  poor.  She  un- 
dertook the  most  hopeless  and  repulsive  cases 
of  disease.  She  interested  herself  also  in  crimi- 
nals, and  when  we  consider  the  utter  wretched- 
ness to  which  prisoners  were  abandoned  in 
those  days  and  the  hideous  tortures  inflicted 
upon  them,  we  realize  how  superhuman  her  con- 
duct must  have  seemed.  Her  fame  spread 
abroad  through  all  Tuscany,  and  she  was  called 
to  neighbouring  cities  to  make  converts  and  ef- 
fect cures. 

Powers  like  hers  have  in  all  ages  been  too 
often  exploited  by  the  politicians  of  the  Church 
for  us  to  be  able  to  set  aside  as  altogether  in- 
credible the  suggestion  that  her  public  actions 
were  controlled  by  designing  men.  The  thing 
seems  likely  enough,  though  proof  is  wanting; 
but  in  any  case  no  one  would  think  of  casting 
reflections  on  her.  Whoever  prompted  it  and 
howsoever  it  was  guided,  the  procedure  was  her 
own,  in  motive  and  method. 


SIENA  171 

Her  public  life  began  in  1375.  Florence  and 
Perugia,  with  other  towns,  had  formed  a  league 
against  the  Papacy.  Since  1309  the  seat  of  the 
Popes  had  not  been  at  Rome  but  in  Avignon, 
and  this  fact  was  the  cause  of  much  disaffec- 
tion, which  was  telling  on  the  religious  as  well 
as  the  political  life  of  Italy.  Catherine,  by  her 
letters  and  exhortations,  held  Siena,  Lucca, 
Arezzo,  and  other  cities  in  their  allegiance  to 
the  Papacy.  Pope  Gregory  XI,  from  his  palace 
in  Avignon,  sent  legates  to  Florence  to  recon- 
cile that  turbulent  people,  but,  the  negotiations 
failing,  the  magistrates  of  Florence  bethought 
themselves  of  this  holy  and  eloquent  woman, 
whom  all  Tuscany  loved  and  revered,  entreating 
her  to  come  and  mediate  between  them  and  the 
Papal  envoys.  Furthermore  they  made  this 
Sienese  their  plenipotentiary  and  sent  her  to 
Avignon,  where  she  was  received  with  great 
deference  by  the  Pope  and  even  by  the  degener- 
ate cardinals.  In  the  municipal  library  of  Siena 
there  are  preserved  in  Catherine's  fine  hand- 
writing some  of  her  letters  during  this  period. 
Her  supreme  endeavour  was  to  bring  back  the 
Pope  to  Rome.  And  in  1377,  largely  through 
her  instrumentality,  the  change  was  actually  ef- 
fected, and  peace,  for  a  short  while,  was  re- 
stored to  Italy.  Later  she  exerted  herself  to 
cure  a  still  greater  evil,  when  two  infallible 


172         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

Popes  were  ruling  at  the  same  time;  and  for 
two  years,  by  her  letters  and  exhortations,  she 
maintained  her  position  as  one  of  the  most  in- 
fluential persons  in  Europe.  As  a  witness  of 
the  authority  with  which  she  spoke,  her  biogra- 
pher Raimondo  says :  *  *  I  frequently  served  as 
interpreter  between  Gregory  XI  and  Catherine ; 
she  did  not  understand  Latin,  and  the  Sover- 
eign Pontiff  did  not  speak  Italian.  In  one  of 
these  interviews  Catherine  asked  why  she  found 
in  the  court  of  Rome,  in  which  all  the  virtues 
ought  to  bloom,  nothing  but  the  contagion  of 
disgraceful  vices.  The  Sovereign  Pontiff  asked 
her  if  it  were  long  since  she  arrived  at  court, 
and  on  being  informed  that  it  was  merely  a  few 
days  since,  he  said  to  her :  *  How  have  you  so 
soon  learned  what  occurs  here  ? '  Then  Cather- 
ine, quitting  her  humble  posture,  and  assuming 
an  air  of  authority  which  astonished  me,  pro- 
nounced the  following  words:  *I  must  declare, 
to  the  glory  of  Almighty  God,  that  while  yet  in 
my  native  city  I  perceived  the  infections  of  the 
sins  committed  in  the  Court  of  Rome  more  dis- 
tinctly than  those  even  who  committed  them 
and  are  still  daily  committing  them. '  The  Pope 
remained  silent,  and  I  could  not  overcome  my 
surprise,  and  shall  never  forget  the  tone  of 
authority  with  which  Catherine  spoke  to  that 
great  Pontiff.'' 


SIENA  173 

While  in  the  full  activity  of  her  zeal  for 
purifying  the  Church  and  promoting  peace,  she 
died,  at  Rome,  in  1380,  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
three. 

I  have  mentioned  Catherine's  devotion  to 
prisoners.  There  had  already  been  another  Sie- 
nese  who  followed  this  *  *  sure  and  unfrequented 
road  to  glory.  * '  Out  of  the  dim  confused  alarms 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  that  age  of  strife  and 
cruelty,  there  rises  the  name  of  an  uncanonized 
saint.  Pier  Pettignano,  a  man  who  had  the 
strange  habit  of  visiting  the  city  dungeons  to 
comfort  the  lost  souls  wasting  there,  forgotten 
by  the  world  outside.  There  remains  the  rec- 
ord of  a  resolution  passed  in  the  town-council, 
on  the  eleventh  of  August,  1282,  empowering 
Pier  Pettignano,  Peter  the  Comb-maker,  to  se- 
lect a  number  of  prisoners  to  be  released  at  the 
Feast  of  the  Assumption  of  that  year.  And 
Dante  has  transmitted  his  name  and  honour  to 
all  posterity  in  a  line  of  the  Purgatorio,  where 
a  Sienese  gentlewoman,  Sapia,  languishing  in 
penitential  sufferings,  tells  the  poet  that 
through  the  charitable  prayers  of  this  good  man 
she  has  made  progress  towards  Paradise.  In 
his  case  again  the  noticeable  thing  is  the  sur- 
prise his  humaneness  excited.  Though  that  is 
supposed  to  have  been  an  age  of  imagination 
and  spiritual  vigour,  it  was  dark  with  cruelty. 


174         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

We  rejoice  in  these  rare  instances  of  unselfish 
charity,  but  the  attitude  of  those  who  witnessed 
or  recorded  them  compels  us  to  cry, 

Alas,  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

Another  bright  name  which  illuminates  the 
annals  of  the  republic  is  that  of  Bernardo  Tolo- 
mei,  who  preceded  the  greater  glory  of  Cather- 
ine by  about  two  generations,  but  whose  spirit 
was  moved  by  the  same  religious  impulses  and 
took  the  same  humane  direction  as  hers.  He 
was  in  his  youth  the  pride  and  hope  of  one  of 
the  great  noble  families  of  Siena.  His  splendid 
faculties  were  disciplined  by  the  most  thorough 
education  the  age  afforded,  and  the  whole  city 
was  invited  from  time  to  time  to  celebrate  his 
attainment  of  the  successive  academic  grades. 
When  only  sixteen  years  old,  he  received  the 
doctorate  in  philosophy  and  in  civil  and  canon 
law,  and  on  that  occasion  the  Tolomei  kept 
open  house  in  all  their  palaces.  The  dramatic 
story  of  his  conversion  is  thus  told  by  J.  A. 
Symonds:  **At  the  age  of  forty,  supported  by 
the  wealth,  alliances,  and  reputation  of  his  semi- 
princely  house,  he  had  become  one  of  the  most 
considerable  party  leaders  in  that  age  of  fac- 
tion. If  we  may  trust  his  monkish  biographer, 
he  was  aiming  at  nothing  less  than  the  tyranny 


SIENA  175 

of  Siena.  But  in  that  year,  when  he  was  forty, 
a  change,  which  can  only  be  described  as  con- 
version, came  over  him.  He  had  advertised  a 
public  disputation,  in  which  he  proposed,  before 
all  comers,  to  solve  the  most  arduous  problems 
of  scholastic  science.  The  concourse  was  great, 
the  assembly  brilliant,  but  the  hero  of  the  day, 
who  had  designed  it  for  his  glory,  was  stricken 
with  sudden  blindness.  In  one  moment  he  com- 
prehended the  internal  void  he  had  created  for 
his  soul,  and  the  blindness  of  the  body  was  il- 
lumination for  the  spirit.  The  pride,  power, 
and  splendour  of  this  world  seemed  to  him  a 
smoke  that  passes.  God,  penitence,  eternity 
appeared  in  the  awful  clarity  of  an  authentic 
vision.  He  fell  upon  his  knees  and  prayed  to 
Mary  that  he  might  receive  his  sight  again. 
This  boon  was  granted,  but  the  revelation  which 
had  come  to  him  in  blindness  was  not  with- 
drawn. Meanwhile  the  hall  of  disputation  was 
crowded  with  an  expectant  audience.  Bernardo 
rose  from  his  knees,  made  his  entry,  and  as- 
cended the  chair;  but  instead  of  the  scholastic 
subtleties  he  had  designed  to  treat,  he  pro- 
nounced the  old  text.  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity. ' ' 

In  that  year  he  sold  all  his  worldly  posses- 
sions and  retired  to  a  wild  spot  twenty-two 
miles  away,  and  there  dwelt  with  certain  com- 


176         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

panions  whom  he  drew  by  the  magnetism  of  his 
example,  in  caves  dug  in  the  clay,  worshipping 
God  and  cultivating  that  most  unpromising  soil. 
From  this  lowly  beginning  arose  the  famous 
monastery  of  Monte  Oliveto,  the  parent  house 
of  an  influential  order,  the  Olivetans.  Even  in 
its  present  condition  of  disestablishment,  a 
windworn  relic  of  old  time,  harbouring  a  hand- 
ful of  monks  where  it  once  held  hundreds,  Monte 
Oliveto,  perched  on  its  mountain,  is  a  splendid 
memorial  of  San  Bernardo.  The  monks  who, 
with  charming  hospitality,  allowed  me  to  spend 
a  night  there,  would  no  doubt  be  at  a  loss  to  ac- 
count for  the  downfall  of  their  order  and  the 
fated  decay  of  the  whole  monastic  system;  but 
I  fancied  a  sufficient  explanation  was  mutely  af- 
forded by  something  I  saw  in  their  library. 
Books  of  devotion  and  orthodox  theology,  and 
insignificant  works  of  a  perfectly  neutral  char- 
acter, were  freely  exposed  on  the  shelves, 
while  everything  modern  or  liberal,  and  virtu- 
ally all  the  chief  masterpieces  of  Italian  liter- 
ature, were  kept  behind  a  locked  wire  frame. 
A  similar  timidity  or  obscurantism  was  shown 
by  the  gentle  young  priest  who  gave  me  lessons 
in  Siena.  He  had  in  his  possession  a  copy  of 
an  American  magazine  containing  Mr.  W.  D. 
Howells's  delightful  article  **Pan  Forte  di 
Siena,"  and  I  was  puzzled  to  find  that  he  hesi- 


SIENA  177 

tated  about  lending  it  to  me.  When  finally  his 
natural  courtesy  overcame  his  scruples,  I  dis- 
covered that  a  pious  hand,  probably  his  own, 
had  blackened  out  with  ink  a  few  phrases  here 
and  there  in  which  Mr.  Howells  had  mentioned 
Saint  Catherine's  ** miracles,''  with  his  accus- 
tomed tolerance,  to  be  sure,  but  not  without  that 
touch  of  rationalism  which  the  priestly  mind 
abhors. 

Let  us  now  come  downwards  six  centuries 
and  witness  a  pageant  which  proves  how  little 
of  her  ancient  tone  and  flavour  Siena  has  lost 
in  all  that  time.  Every  year,  on  the  second  of 
July  and  again  on  the  fifteenth  of  August,  she 
celebrates  her  devotion  to  the  Virgin  and  her 
gratitude  for  the  victory  of  Montaperti  in  a 
peculiar  contest,  which  can  only  by  a  narrow- 
ing of  the  term  be  called  a  horse-race.  The  per- 
formance, with  all  its  accessories,  is  much  more 
than  a  horse-race.  The  Sienese  name  the  whole 
occasion  *  *  II  Palio. "  It  is  a  strictly  local  festi- 
val, but  transcends  all  others  in  their  eyes. 
Siena  has  stood  so  high  above  the  rest  of  the 
world,  in  more  senses  than  one,  that  she  finds 
it  hard  to  descend  to  the  level  of  our  century. 
I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  her  devotion  to  the 
Kingdom  of  Italy,  but  nevertheless  it  is  worthy 
of  remark  that  in  the  whole  week  of  the  July 
festivities,  amid  an  extravagance  of  banners,  I 


178         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

saw  only  one  national  flag.  Here,  on  these  steep 
hills,  is  the  fatherland,  and  surely  it  is  no  mean 
country.  Modern  as  well  as  mediaeval  Siena 
is  complete  in  herself.  She  has  her  peculiar  in- 
dustries and  institutions,  her  university,  her 
own  school  of  art,  her  own  style  of  architecture, 
and  also  her  own  ancient  and  unique  way  of  en- 
joying herself. 

I  came  to  know  about  the  Palio  on  this  wise. 
There  was  a  young  Sienese,  bearing  the  ambi- 
tious name  of  Dante,  who  for  a  modest  consid- 
eration accompanied  me  during  the  month  of 
June  in  my  evening  walks.  He  would  come  with 
his  dog  to  fetch  me  after  dinner  and  we  would 
stroll  out  through  the  Porta  San  Marco  or  the 
Porta  Romana  to  have  a  conversation  in  Italian 
and  to  see  the  sunset  light  redden  the  city  wall 
and  gild  the  face  of  the  cathedral.  A  gentler 
or  more  civil  youth  it  would  be  hard  to  find,  and 
he  acquiesced  uncomplainingly  in  my  desire  to 
descend  into  the  valley  and  climb  the  high 
places  beyond,  that  I  might  gaze  back  upon  the 
redoubtable  little  city,  gathering  jealously 
within  her  waving  cincture  her  wealth  of  tow- 
ers, palaces,  and  churches.  Standing  one  eve- 
ning on  such  a  spot,  we  fell  to  talking  of  the 
great  plague  of  1348,  with  the  particulars  of 
which  my  Dante  displayed  as  minute  an  ac- 
quaintance as  if  it  had  occurred  last  year.    For 


SIENA  179 

me,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  not  easy  to  look 
so  far  back.  The  present  was  so  beautiful  that 
I  CQuld  see  only  the  silvery  olive  groves  about 
me,  with  the  purpling  mountains  behind  and 
the  pinnacled  city  pulsating  before  me  in  the 
ruddy  glow.  I  could  scarcely  conceive  of  the 
dreadful  plague,  of  the  strife  with  Florence 
and  Pisa,  of  the  civil  tumults  and  the  famines. 
**Ah,  you  other  forestieri/'  sighed  Dante, 
stirring  the  dust  with  his  foot,  **you  cannot  be 
expected  to  take  an  interest  in  our  troubles. 
But  if  you  are  here  in  July  you  will  see  the 
Palio,  and  I  think  you  will  say  it  is  a  grand 
sight/'  And  all  the  way  down  from  our  hill- 
top and  up  the  laborious  steep  to  the  Porta  San 
Marco,  with  only  the  stars  and  fireflies  to  guide 
us,  we  talked  about  the  Palio,  and  again  for 
many  days  thereafter.  Dante  proved  to  be  a 
safer  authority  on  this  subject  than  on  the 
plague,  for  he  was  to  take  part  in  the  event, 
was  to  carry  a  banner,'  in  fact.  He  had  a 
friend,  too,  who  had  written  a  little  book  about 
the  Palio,  and  we  read  it  together  as  we  walked 
between  the  wheat-fields  or  hung  over  a  low 
wall  with  a  view  of  Monte  Amiata's  greyish- 
blue  cone  in  the  distance.  The  work  was  re- 
ceived seriously  by  antiquaries  and  we  may  ac- 
cept its  statement  of  something  which  my  own 
observation  would  have  led  me  to  deny,  namely 


180         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

that  the  Sienese  are  a  fierce  and  warlike  race. 
*  *  It  appears  that  from  the  memory  of  man  they 
have  always  been  ready  with  their  fists.  Taci- 
tus informs  us  that  the  commons  of  Siena,  hav- 
ing got  tired  of  a  certain  Roman  patrician 
named  Manlius,  laid  hold  on  him  one  day  and 
cast  him  out  headlong,  and  thus  they  enter  into 
history  with  fists  doubled  and  playing  on  some- 
body's ribs,  and  it  seems  that  the  propensity 
to  use  their  hands  in  this  way,  whether  in  jest 
or  earnest,  has  never  been  abandoned ;  in  every 
public  amusement  fighting  has  always  had  an 
honoured  place,  down  to  our  own  time,  when 
the  jockeys  hammer  one  another  with  their 
whipstocks  in  the  races  of  the  Palio." 

In  the  days  of  the  great  republic  of  Siena, 
the  city  was  divided  into  wards  (in  1328  there 
were  fifty-nine)  each  of  which  mustered  and 
equipped  a  contingent  of  fighting  men,  with  its 
particular  banner  and  uniform.  They  were 
led  to  victory  or  defeat  by  a  battle-car  bearing 
the  standard  of  the  city.  Siena  remembers 
only  the  victories,  and  particularly  that  of 
Montaperti,  over  the  Florentines,  whereas  if 
you  go  to  Perugia,  you  might  suppose  that  the 
only  affair  of  arms  known  to  history  was  the 
defeat  of  the  Sienese  in  1358 ;  and  there,  sculp- 
tured on  the  town-hall,  you  may  see,  Alas,  the 
Perugian  griflSn  triumphing  over  the  Sienese 


SIENA  181 

wolf.  Well,  it  is  said  that  to  nourish  a  love  of 
combat,  the  sports  in  the  Campo  of  Siena  were 
organized,  and  they  consisted  at  first  in  such 
rude  cudgelling  and  stone-throwing  that  in  1291 
a  maudlin  sentimentality  prevailed  and  fisti- 
cuffs alone  were  permitted.  It  must  have  been 
lively  in  that  vast  space  when  hundreds  of  hard- 
handed  tanners  poured  in  from  the  ward  of 
the  Goose  and  fell  upon  the  supporters  of  the 
Snail,  the  Panther,  the  Owl,  the  Dragon,  and 
the  Caterpiller.  There  were  apparently  not 
enough  names  from  the  animal  kingdom  to  go 
round,  and  three  of  the  wards  to-day  are  still 
called  the  Wave,  the  Tower,  and  the  Grove.  It 
is  locally  related  that  Dante  (Alighieri  this) 
once  walked  across  the  Campo  while  a  fight  was 
in  progress,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from  an 
interesting  volume  he  had  picked  up  at  a  corner 
book-stand,  but  the  tradition  is  unauthentic,  and 
I  decline  to  believe  that  the  author  of  the  In- 
ferno could  prefer  a  book  to  a  riot.  The  figure 
of  the  stern-faced  Tuscan  poet  would,  however, 
be  in  keeping  with  that  noble  Campo,  which  he 
mentions  in  the  Purgatorio.  And  since  it  re- 
mains substantially  as  it  was  in  his  day,  and 
the  same  edifices  that  smiled  upon  the  Palio 
this  year  witnessed  the  tumults  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  the  Campo  is  itself  a  great  his- 
torical monument.    I  have  seen  it  on  cold,  dark 


182         DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

spring  mornings  and  under  the  sun  of  summer 
afternoons,  and  by  moonlight  beneath  drifting 
clouds,  and  crowded  and  empty,  but  never  un- 
imposing.  It  is  a  large  open  space  in  an  angle 
between  two  of  the  spurs  on  which  the  town  is 
built,  and  slopes  southward  in  a  shallow  con- 
cave, like  a  sea-shell,  with  the  widest  rim  lying 
to  the  north.  The  pavement  adds  to  the  impres- 
sion of  a  shell,  being  of  bright-coloured  stones 
planted  in  long  straight  streaks  that  converge 
to  the  lower  end.  Where  these  lines  meet  rises 
the  town-hall  or  Palazzo  Pubblico,  light  and 
graceful  for  all  its  dignity.  Around  the  edge  of 
the  pavement  runs  a  wide  walk,  above  which 
rises  a  semi-circle  of  palaces  in  delicately  tinted 
brick,  many  stories  high,  yet  not  frowning  or 
haughty  like  some  other  mediaeval  palaces  else- 
where in  the  city,  but  partaking  of  the  geniality 
of  the  spot,  as  if  feudal  exclusiveness  had  given 
way  here  to  a  sense  of  common  interest  and 
universal  justice. 

Of  the  fifty-nine  wards  or  contrade,  seven- 
teen alone  remain.  But  the  spirit  of  rivalry 
seems  only  to  have  been  concentrated,  and  the 
Palio  I  witnessed  probably  excited  as  much  en- 
thusiasm as  any  in  the  past.  Each  contrada 
furnishes  a  horse,  a  rider,  and  a  small  troop  of 
representatives  clad  in  costumes  of  the  thir- 
teenth and  fourteenth  centuries,  with  its  own 


SIENA  183 

colours  and  coat  of  arms.  The  name  Palio  re- 
fers to  the  prize,  consisting  of  a  roll  of  richly 
embroidered  cloth,  awarded  by  the  municipal- 
ity. For  a  month  the  troops  of  the  contrade 
had  been  drilling  in  the  lanes  outside  of  town, 
the  colour-bearers  learning  how  to  toss  their 
banners  in  the  air  and  catch  them  as  they  fell 
with  all  their  folds  unfurled,  and  the  drummers 
and  trumpeters  noisily  practising.  The  public 
demonstrations,  however,  began  three  days  be- 
fore the  great  event  and  continued,  morning 
and  evening,  six  times.  A  track  of  clay  and 
sand  is  made  round  the  Campo,  and  the  horses 
and  jockeys  come  out  to  try  the  course.  These 
tests  are  almost  as  exciting  as  the  final  race, 
though  not  as  picturesque.  The  track  is  ex- 
tremely difficult,  and  dangerous  for  a  new 
horse.  There  is  one  corner  especially  where, 
after  a  turn  at  an  angle  sharper  than  a  right 
angle,  the  ground  drops  away  abruptly,  in  front 
of  the  Palazzo  Pubblico,  and  here  at  the  first 
trial  this  year,  three  riders  lost  their  seats  and 
went  rolling  beneath  the  hoofs  of  the  horses 
that  came  after.  The  proportion  of  accidents 
grew  less  as  the  trials  advanced,  until  at  last  it 
was  not  too  much  to  expect  that  both  horses 
and  jockeys  might  make  the  three  timees  round 
without  a  tumble.  Two  circumstances  mitigate 
the  danger:  the  houses  at  that  perilous  point 


184         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

are  faced  with  mattresses,  and  the  horses  are 
of  a  small,  quick  breed  much  favoured  in  this 
mountainous  district.  Their  agility  in  turn- 
ing corners  at  full  speed  makes  walking  in 
Siena  a  lively  exercise,  for  there  is  no  distinc- 
tion between  road  and  footway  in  her  narrow 
streets.  The  steeds  are  lent  to  the  public  ser- 
vice by  enthusiastic  residents  of  the  contrade, 
and  are  put  on  a  diet  of  wine  and  choice  feed. 

In  the  first  trial,  which  took  place  on  a  Sun- 
day evening  just  before  sunset,  in  the  presence 
of  an  immense  crowd,  the  Snail  took  a  lead  at 
the  start  and  kept  it  to  the  finish.  The  rider,  in 
his  red  and  yellow  costume,  had  a  look  of  vic- 
tory in  his  eye,  and  I  learned  to  watch  for  his 
face  and  colours  in  the  dazzling  confusion  of 
horses  and  jockeys  at  all  the  subsequent  trials. 
He  nearly  always  won.  On  that  first  evening 
there  was  great  disappointment  and  indigna- 
tion in  my  own  contrada,  the  Panther,  which 
lies  next  to  the  Snail.  They  said  the  Snail  was 
sure  to  win  the  Palio  now,  and  any  other  victor 
would  have  been  more  acceptable  to  us.  I  took 
a  stroll  through  the  Via  San  Marco,  the  prin- 
cipal street  in  the  Snail,  to  witness  the  joy  of 
the  people,  and  found  them  proud  and  confi- 
dent of  final  victory.  Their  church  was  hung 
with  captured  banners  and  festooned  with  the 
red  and  yellow.    The  altar  was  ablaze  with  can- 


SIENA  185 

dies,  and  before  it  knelt  a  throng  of  happy  peo- 
ple, returning  thanks  for  the  good  news,  just 
arrived,  that  the  first  auguries  had  been  favour- 
able. Priests  and  women  were  laughing  and 
chatting  in  the  doorway,  and  in  front  a  brass 
band  was  playing  and  children  were  dancing, 
while  the  rest  of  the  population  gesticulated  in 
the  street  or  leaned  from  their  windows  with 
faces  expressive  of  calm  content.  Not  having 
been  born  a  citizen  of  the  Panther,  I  could  not 
be  expected  to  share  the  gloom  that  prevailed 
there,  even  in  the  house  where  I  lived,  and  may 
be  excused  for  wishing  to  belong  to  the  Snail. 
Three  days  later  and  it  is  the  evening  of  the 
Palio.  From  the  Campo,  which  has  been  con- 
verted into  an  amphitheatre  by  the  erection  of 
scaffoldings  against  the  house  walls,  rises  a 
murmur  of  voices  and  a  flutter  of  fans.  The 
sun  streams  in  through  the  steep  narrow  streets 
on  the  western  side,  and  falls  aslant  upon  the 
mellow  old  walls  of  the  Palazzo  Pubblico,  where 
the  clock  points  to  six.  The  race-track  is 
fenced  about,  but  the  people  make  no  account 
of  that,  and  swarm  everywhere.  All  the  win- 
dows are  occupied  and  all  the  roofs  lined  with 
spectators,  and  away  up  in  the  air,  so  high  that 
they  look  like  swallows,  there  are  people  on  the 
Mangia.  The  centre  of  the  Campo,  several 
acres  in  extent,  is  filled  with  country  people. 


186         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

The  peasants  in  all  European  countries  seem  to 
me  more  interesting  and  estimable  than  the 
middle  or  mercantile  class  in  the  towns,  and  at 
Siena  the  comparison  is  overwhelmingly  in 
their  favour.  The  men  are  of  a  ruddy  bronze 
complexion,  with  bright  eyes  and  active  bodies, 
showing  none  of  the  bovine  heaviness  common 
in  the  north  of  Europe  or  of  the  languor  that 
characterizes  many  of  the  contadini  near  Rome 
and  in  Calabria.  The  women  have  delicate  and 
sensitive  features, — straight,  fine  noses,  ele- 
gantly moulded  lips  and  chins,  and,  for  the 
most  part,  blue  eyes.  Their  dress  and  deport- 
ment, and  the  absence  of  jewellery,  indicate  na- 
tive good  taste.  The  most  effective  part  of 
their  costume  is  a  wide,  drooping  hat  of  fine 
white  Leghorn  straw,  which  flaps  back  in  the 
wind  when  they  walk.  Some  of  these  hats  are 
three  or  even  four  feet  in  diameter.  The  peas- 
antry of  the  Sienese  region  can  hardly  be  called 
sturdy;  they  are  distinguished,  however,  by 
elegance  and  grace.  Their  presence  supplied 
vivacity  and  even  additional  colour  to  the  mag- 
nificent sweep  before  me,  as  I  looked  round  the 
Campo.  White  straw  hats  nodded  everywhere, 
especially  in  the  centre  of  the  amphitheatre,  in- 
side the  course,  where  the  crowd,  of  perhaps 
twenty  thousand  persons,  was  broken  into 
groups  of  relatives  and  fellow-villagers.    Here 


SIENA  187 

were  a  half-dozen  harvesters,  with  their  sickles 
under  their  arms,  the  blades  wrapped  with 
grass  for  safety;  there  a  cluster  of  laughing 
girls,  surrounded  by  three  times  their  number 
of  admirers;  here  a  poor  family  of  mountain- 
eers, father,  mother,  and  children,  a  little  be- 
wildered by  their  surroundings;  there  a  few 
sallow  faces  from  the  Maremma.  Siena's  old- 
est and  proudest  families  were  represented, 
having  all  returned  for  this  one  day  from 
country-places  and  seaside  resorts.  Of  foreign- 
ers there  appeared  to  be  almost  none,  and  their 
absence  was  a  guarantee,  if  any  were  needed, 
of  the  genuineness  of  the  pageant. 

There  was  a  warmth  and  geniality  in  the  spec- 
tacle that  I  suppose  is  to  be  found  only  in  un- 
commercial countries,  and  also  a  certain  seri- 
ousness which  is  peculiarly  Sienese  and  was 
deepened  by  the  partisan  fanaticism  of  the  con- 
trade.  With  plenty  of  banter,  there  was,  how- 
ever, no  display  of  bad  blood.  The  tiers  of  seats 
at  the  base  of  the  houses  were  filled  long  before 
the  appointed  time,  and  a  whole  hour  was  spent 
in  noisy  speculation  concerning  the  result.  The 
shadows  kept  creeping  round  and  growing 
longer,  the  sunlight  became  fainter  and  ruddier, 
and  the  hand  of  the  clock  stood  nearer  seven 
than  six,  when  the  track  was  cleared  and  trum- 
peters stepped  in  from  the  Middle  Ages  and 


188         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

blew  a  mighty  blast.    Behind  them  advanced  the 
troop  of  the  first  contrada,  a  captain  in  mediae- 
val armour,  mounted,  and  surrounded  by  pages, 
then   a   standard-bearer   and  a   drummer,   all 
wearing  the  colours  of  their  ward.     The  man 
with  the  flag  performed  wonders,   tossing  it 
twenty  feet  in  air,  passing  it  under  his  arms 
and  his  legs,  and  before  him  and  behind  him, 
and  waving  a  greeting  to  the  throng.     Next 
came  the  doughty  little  horse  that  was  to  run 
and  the  equally  tough  little  man  that  was  to 
ride  him.     Each  troop  as  it  entered  deployed 
its  magnificence  for  two  or  three  minutes  and 
then  passed  on  around  the  ring.    Last  came  the 
battle-car  of  the  republic,  the  same,  it  is  firmly 
believed,  about  which  eddied  the  bloodiest  strife 
at   Montaperti,   over   six  hundred  years   ago. 
Only  ten  horses  were  to  run,  and  the  banners 
of  the  seven  non-participating  contrade  waved 
from  the  battle-car,  which  also  contained  the 
prize-cloth,  the  palio.     There  are  unbelievers, 
even  in  Siena,  who  maintain  that  this  vehicle  is 
not  the  one  which  figured  in  that  battle.    They 
declare  that,  like  the  ship  Argo,  it  has  been  so 
often  patched  up  that  no  scrap  of  the  original 
can  possibly  be  left.    It  is  a  nice  question,  which 
we  must  turn  over  to  the  logicians. 

When  the  procession  had  made  the  circuit  of 
the  Campo,  the  captains,  musicians,  standard- 


SIENA  189 

bearers,  and  pages  took  their  places  in  front  of 
the  Palazzo  Pubblico,  and  the  jockeys  disap- 
peared within,  to  exchange  their  gala  costumes 
for  leather  helmets  and  canvas  suits.  They 
emerged  presently,  bareback,  on  their  mettle- 
some little  horses,  greeted  by  a  roar  from  the 
crowd,  and  rode  to  the  starting-rope.  There  is 
a  moment  of  confusion,  getting  the  horses  to 
face  the  course.  Then  the  cannon  thunders,  the 
rope  falls,  and  they  are  off,  like  the  waters  of 
a  spring  flood  bursting  a  dam.  They  do  not  all 
get  away  at  once.  There  is  a  great  flurry  and 
confusion  and  tangle.  You  can  hear  the  whacks 
of  the  whipstocks  doing  lively  work  over  the 
backs  and  heads  of  the  jockeys.  The  horses  are 
frantic  and  their  riders  crazy  to  break  away 
from  the  scrimmage.  But  they  are  bound  the 
Snail  shall  not  have  a  clear  track.  Two  who 
have  no  chance  of  winning  themselves  have 
seized  him  by  the  bridle  and  are  pounding  the 
plucky  jockey  over  his  head  and  arms,  and 
meanwhile  the  Panther  and  the  Dragon  have 
burst  off  from  the  crowd  and  are  down  the 
course  at  a  dead  run,  with  the  rest  following. 
At  the  dangerous  corner  the  Dragon  takes  a 
wider  sweep  than  the  Panther,  thus  preserving 
his  speed,  and  at  the  next  curve  passes  him, 
with  a  back  stroke  of  the  club.  The  Snail,  in 
spite  of  what  would  be  reckoned  foul  play  in 


190         DREAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

any  other  race,  runs  the  gauntlet  of  slashes  and 
whacks  and  pulls  away  from  his  tormentors ;  it 
is  by  no  means  certain  that  his  brave  horse  and 
good  management  will  not  bring  him  in  first, 
after  all.  Around  they  come  again,  in  a  whirl 
of  dust,  the  Dragon  leading.  Looking  over  his 
shoulder  to  estimate  the  danger,  he  dashes 
down  the  hill.  The  second  and  third  are  hav- 
ing a  lively  fight  with  fists  and  whips,  and,  as 
they  turn  the  corner  in  a  bunch,  down  goes  a 
horse,  pitching  his  rider  headlong  against  the 
mattresses.  Another  jockey  seems  to  find  his 
horse 's  back  too  slippery  and  goes  slowly  over 
his  flank,  falling  on  hands  and  knees  and  rolling 
out  miraculously  from  the  hoofs  of  the  Cater- 
piller  and  the  Tower.  His  steed,  however,  is  an 
old  Palio  racer  and  goes  ahead  all  the  faster 
for  being  riderless,  and  if  he  comes  in  first  he 
will  win  the  day. 

But  it  is  too  late.  The  cannon  thunders 
again,  and  the  Dragon  is  being  lifted  from  his 
horse  by  wild  admirers,  who  hug  both  man  and 
beast  and  carry  them  down  the  track,  regard- 
less of  the  other  coursers,  who  cannot  be  reined 
in.  The  benches  are  emptying.  The  crowd  is 
pouring  from  the  Campo.  Before  the  race, 
every  horse  was  taken  into  his  parish  church 
and  led  up  to  the  altar  to  be  blessed  by  the 
priest,  and  now  the  multitude  of  Dragonites  are 


SIENA  191 

streaming  away  to  the  church  of  the  Proven- 
zano  to  return  thanks  for  the  victory.  The 
nervous  little  animal  is  pushed  in  through  the 
door-curtain,  and  stamps  across  the  marble 
floor  to  the  high  altar,  where  he  droops  his  head 
for  a  moment  while  the  jockey  kneels  and  the 
congregation  lift  up  their  hearts  in  thanksgiv- 
ing. 

There  was  much  murmuring  about  the  unfair 
treatment  of  the  Snail,  but  apparently  all  was 
forgotten  by  the  next  Sunday  night,  when  the 
entire  population  of  the  Dragon,  including  the 
horse,  partook  of  a  banquet  at  public  expense. 
Up  to  within  a  few  years  ago,  the  table  was  set 
in  the  street,  the  feast  lasted  all  night,  and  all 
comers  were  treated;  but  the  uproar  was  so 
terrific  that  the  custom  has  been  changed.  For- 
tunately this  is  the  most  extensive  reform  that 
has  been  introduced,  and  Siena  still  enjoys  her- 
self in  the  lively  old  way  she  has  inherited  from 
the  Middle  Ages. 

I  have  dwelt  on  Siena's  past  greatness,  illus- 
trating this  theme  by  the  story  of  her  cathedral 
and  town-hall  and  of  the  growth  of  a  humane 
spirit  in  the  hearts  of  some  of  her  famous  citi- 
zens, and  have  shown  finally  how  she  still  holds 
fast  to  at  least  one  mediaeval  custom,  in  the 
Palio.  But  unless  you  have  walked  her  echoing 
streets  or  viewed  her  from  some  green  lane  in 


192         DEEAMS  AND  MEMORIES 

the  country  outside  her  walls,  you  can  hardly 
form  a  conception  of  her  beauty,  gracious 
though  not  gay,  serious  though  not  stern.  I 
carried  away  in  my  heart  one  picture  of  her 
which  will  remain  with  me  always.  It  was  very 
early  in  the  morning,  and  I  was  returning  to 
town  after  a  stroll  in  the  country,  for  one  had  to 
be  up  betimes  to  do  any  walking  before  the  heat 
of  the  day.  I  had  descended  a  gorge  into  the 
narrow  valley  that  encompasses  Siena  like  a 
moat,  and  emerging  from  the  wet  bushes  at 
last,  stood  free  on  a  level  spot.  In  the  bottom 
of  the  valley  still  lodged  the  shadows  and 
damps  of  night.  Above,  on  the  hill,  where 
climbed  and  clung  the  town,  a  light  and  half- 
transparent  vapour  rested,  yet  ever  seemed 
about  to  float  away.  One  over  another,  on  the 
imminent  steep,  hung  the  black-roofed  houses, 
just  visible  through  the  scattering  mist,  like 
sunken  reefs  that  show  themselves  under  the 
foam  of  breakers.  It  was  a  desolate  and  for- 
bidding scene  and  made  me  think  of  towns  in  a 
less  hospitable  clime, — of  Edinburgh  High 
Street  or  grim  old  Quebec.  But  a  layer  of  fog 
broke  oif  and  floated  away  into  the  upper  air, 
and  left  revealed,  crowning  that  unawakened 
height,  a  structure  airy  as  the  cloud  itself,  and 
seemingly  about  to  rise  in  the  morning  breeze. 
The  fair  cathedral  glittered  in  the  sun,  from  the 


SIENA  193 

gilt  angel  on  its  foremost  pinnacle  to  the  bands 
of  polished  marble  at  its  base;  and  from  the 
half  that  was  revealed  could  be  surmised  the 
beauties  which  the  fog  still  covered.  Its  huge 
swelling  dome  reflected  a  thousand  many-tinted 
rays,  like  a  great  bubble  of  iridescent  glass. 
The  graceful  campanile  pointed  high  in  the 
fresh  heavens,  fast  clearing  now  of  the  veils  of 
night.  Then  came  the  flutter  of  the  day's  first 
doves,  starting  forth  from  the  slender  tower 
windows,  and  sweet  Siena  was  awake  again. 


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